The Magpie Series
by GizmoTrinket
Summary: Superstitions are odd things. Just because you don't believe in them doesn't mean they don't affect you. Sherlock believes more than he admits and John finds he needs to learn them all.
1. One is for Sorrow: The Magpie

**A/N:** This story has: Major Character Death, Graphic Descriptions of Violence, light swearing, spoilers for The Princess Bride and is not season 4 compliant. I will update it as often as possible. This can also be found on AO3.

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John had a bad feeling about this. He didn't say anything to Sherlock, of course. Sherlock would roll his eyes and mock John for being superstitious. But as the plane landed in a frozen Polish airport, bouncing in a jarring skip that had John's head slamming against the window John couldn't help but think it was a bad omen.

Sherlock navigated the snow covered city easily, occasionally inhaling too quickly and rasping out a hacking cough in response. John glared at him but swallowed his cigarette lecture. Sherlock looked drained and he had actually slept on the plane. John knew the case was dangerous and had something to do with his wife. Sherlock never told John specifics about his wife's past at John's request which seemed like an oversight that should have been corrected as soon as she disappeared. John had tried to forgive her and there his daughter to consider. But no matter the effort John put in to putting the past behind him John couldn't erase the memories of Sherlock's hospitalizations, the frequent gasps of pain Sherlock couldn't stifle no matter how hard he tried, the multiple pain medications Sherlock had hidden around the flat instead of swallowing. Sherlock said it was because he couldn't think clearly but John suspected Sherlock was actually fighting addiction. John knew Sherlock would have done a much better job hiding the pills if he'd wanted to stockpile them. The smoking didn't bother John too much, considering the alternatives. It was that Sherlock had pneumonia three times while he was recovering and the smoking made it hard for John to tell if he needed to be worried about a cough or not.

But, it wasn't John's place to worry anymore. Mycroft had told John to look after his brother but Sherlock wouldn't allow coddling before everything happened. Sherlock had made it clear John was no longer welcome to do anything outside what a doctor would during checkups and the occasional cup of tea. Sherlock wouldn't eat the food John prepared during his convalescence, going so far as to throw it against the wall in a memorable fit of piqué. John felt like a true flatmate when he saw leftover takeaway cartons in the fridge with Sherlock's name on them in Sharpie. Everything John had bought at the shops was labelled with "John" in Sherlock's scrawl. After Christmas they weren't allowed to communicate. When Sherlock had reached for John's gun John had figured Sherlock was going to stash it so the authorities wouldn't arrest him. When Sherlock turned back saying, "Give my love to Mary." John nearly went into shock. The entire time John was hiding at 221B he was hoping Sherlock would give him a sign, any sign, that they could go back to the way things were before. John allowed himself to be pulled from Sherlock's side and returned to Mary's keeping. Mary had written the whole thing off as Sherlock miscalculating. But, John remembered Sherlock's question as they were walking to the helicopter, "Did you bring your gun, as I suggested?"

That thought had stuck with John, nagged at him.

Before he managed to figure out why there had been an awkward encounter on a tamarack. John watched the plane take off with the words, "Since it's unlikely we'll ever meet again..." twisting his gut like a dagger. John assumed Sherlock would gallivant off, having a grand adventure for a half year then abandon John to live out his days in a boring life of normalcy in the suburbs. Then the overdose and Moriarty took the forefront of his thoughts. Mary was concerned about Moriarty and Sherlock assured her he was dead. But Mary was jumpy, anxious and made John keep all the blinds closed and John realized just how little he knew his wife. When he asked Mary if she had a replacement gun he could use her response was a resounding no, delivered with a blank look and calculating eyes. John knew then that Mary had been manipulating him. That Mary had offered suggestions for Sherlock's behaviour that cast Sherlock in negative light but were believable. That Sherlock had been angry and distant during the months of healing because John wasn't; because John had allowed the thought of forgiving his wife purchase, considering it and deciding to follow through after several awkward conversations. Of course Sherlock would refuse to engage in John's discussions about Sherlock's feelings. Why would he bother to take part when John was only considering Sherlock as an option other than his wife? The more convenient option only if Sherlock had sexual desire for him.

God, he was an arse.

Sherlock hacked a deep fluid filled cough into his elbow, turning his head away from John and wincing with a sniffle when he was done. John studied his friend, noticing that Sherlock's nose wasn't red from cold, but irritation. That Sherlock's sharp eyes were dim, the whites turning grey and Sherlock was blinking more often than normal.

"Oh, god, you're sick, aren't you?!" John growled at his friend accusingly.

Sherlock's cheek twitched as he clenched his jaw. "Yes, John." He admitted when he realized lying was useless. "I occasionally get the flu during the winter months. Although I do contract it less often than other _people._ " Sherlock sneered. "There's nothing to worry about, _doctor_."

Anger and guilt warred within John. Anger because Sherlock was taking stupid risks for a woman John wouldn't ever forgive. He didn't even know her name! The only reason John was so panicked was because when Mary disappeared the baby did too. John may hate his wife but his daughter had no crimes and didn't deserve the punishments Mary had earned. And there was no doubt that Mary had earned them, she was associated with Moriarty and there were things on that flashdrive Mary was happy he didn't know. Sherlock knew them though and the anger flared when John thought about all the things Sherlock kept from him. The anger died as the guilt won out. Sherlock was just following John's instructions. John had never informed Sherlock he'd changed his mind about forgiving Mary and although Sherlock was observant, he was no mind reader. He observed John reaching out to him in a panic saying Mary was missing. How would Sherlock know that John only cared about the baby his wife refused to let him help name? Another pulse of anger doused when John's guilt about calling Sherlock a machine, the late night talks John ham-fistedly tried to talk about Sherlock's _urges_ , chickening out of admitting his own feelings by covering it with medical concern when Sherlock asked him why he cared. John remembered watching his friend pull further and further away after that, succumbing to pneumonia before John was allowed near him with a stethoscope. And even then John had to listen with the barrier of Sherlock's clothing. Sherlock wouldn't even let him check his wound, it had mostly healed and the antibiotics would take care of any unlikely infections that arose.

John bit his cheek, trying to come up with words to salvage the situation. John knew this may be their only chance to find Mary and/or the baby alive. Sherlock had tried to make John stay behind but Mycroft had put his foot down, informing John that it was probably a trap and if Sherlock was going John would have to watch his back. He also sent some agents to gather information and watch them from afar. The cab stopped and Sherlock opened the door, a cold gust of wind replacing his friend's body heat. John swallowed back bile, his sudden nausea a result of a feeling of impending doom rather than a sign that he was falling ill.

The sound of the boot closing shook John from his reverie and Sherlock started arguing with the cabbie in Polish. John got out of the cab to intervene but a magpie landed nearby with a squawk and the cabbie said something, took the money Sherlock offered and left. Sherlock entered a staring contest with the bird. It was unsettling and John tried to break the tension by picking up the bags. The bird flapped its wings in a threat and Sherlock muttered the same phrase the cab driver said before stalking off to the hotel. John blinked, cocking his head at the bird that was staring at him expectedly. Sherlock coughed again and John lugged the bags past the bird, feeling as if he failed some sort of test as he followed the fluttering Belstaff.

When John entered the lobby Sherlock was stalking up the stairs. John started walking to the girl behind the desk, figuring Sherlock couldn't have finished checking in already. Sherlock corrected him by calling, "Come on, John. We don't have time for you to try flirt with someone who doesn't speak English."

The girl called the statement into question by giggling and John glared at Sherlock's shoe, the only part John could still see, but followed nonetheless.

By the time John made it up the stairs he was panting. Sherlock was on one of the single beds, hands under his chin with a laptop John had never seen open on his abdomen. John considered interrupting Sherlock's thoughts, Sherlock was probably only in the pose so they wouldn't have to talk anyway, but he didn't know what he wanted to say.

Sherlock coughed again, trying to hide the sound of the fluid but his transport rebelled and Sherlock was forced to hack up the mucus or choke. John sighed, grabbing the bin and spare roll of toilet paper from the bathroom and setting them next to Sherlock. John knew from the glare he received Sherlock wouldn't welcome any other caretaking effort from John so he didn't bother to go back for a cup of water. John sat on the edge of the other bed instead, trying to be subtle as he checked the colour of the sputum and wanting to be available if Sherlock vomited. He didn't, though it was a close thing. John wanted to check for a fever he knew was present if the pink tinge to Sherlock's cheeks was any indicator but the icy stare Sherlock levelled at him as he binned some of the toilet paper turned tissue pinned John in place.

"I understand you're a doctor, John. But I was unaware your practice was so boring that a common cold was riveting." The scathing tone Sherlock normally used to utter such insults was dulled by way of stuffy sinuses making him seem more miserable than angry. Sherlock dabbed at his leaking nose and glared at John's pity. He sneered, "If you're just going to sit there you might as well make yourself useful. There's some Paracetamol in my bag and a cup for water in the bathroom."

John got up to do as bid and only let himself smile when his back was to Sherlock. He retrieved the medicine first, finding an unopened bottle of antibiotics and non-drowsy cough syrup too. John left the others be and waited for the honking sound of Sherlock trying to force the blockage out to stop before returning with the water. Sherlock swallowed double the recommended dose, waving away John's objection and finished the glass, holding it out for John to refill. John took it, hearing Sherlock shuffling around and waiting for Sherlock to settle before returning. Sherlock was fighting with the bottle of antibiotics and John traded the bottle for the glass, frowning at how weak Sherlock was that he couldn't open the safety seal himself. "When was the last time you ate?" John asked, keeping the now open bottle out of reach.

"John." Sherlock growled, warning John of both his irritation at being mollycoddled and the normal irritation that comes with feeling sick amplified Sherlock's general temperament.

It's not that Sherlock had never been sick before, it happened quite frequently. But not as often as John felt it should considering his friend's eating habits, sleeping habits, occasional drug habit (smoking or otherwise), stress levels, job hazards and the biohazard that was their -no- Sherlock's kitchen. "You know you can't take these on an empty stomach, Sherlock." John argued. John decided to skip over the fact that there was no prescription and Sherlock probably hadn't seen a doctor, just acquired the penicillin from god knows where since Sherlock was trying to take care of himself. John felt relief and realized, with some horror, that a part of him wasn't planning on being around Sherlock to take care of him after they found Mary.

John looked at Sherlock and Sherlock shrugged, plucking the pill bottle from his hand before pocketing it. "I'll come back with something edible then." Sherlock muttered.

The door clicked closed and John wanted to turn and follow, but he felt rooted to the spot. He couldn't go back to the house with Mary and the baby. John couldn't leave the baby to Mary either though, it wasn't right and it sure as hell wasn't safe. The latter was true with John too though so he didn't hold it against her too much. John had no idea what to do, it wasn't as if he could be mad at Mary for being kidnapped; John was kidnapped so frequently it was a running gag at the yard. John knew what he wanted to do; he'd like to take the baby back to 221B where she'd have John, Sherlock and Mycroft's protection. But Sherlock would have to move his experiments and John wasn't sure he was welcome at Baker Street anymore anyway. And with a baby too? Mrs. Hudson wouldn't mind the crying but Sherlock? John had no idea if Sherlock could handle a newborn or toddler. Sherlock frequently surprised him he'd been wonderful with Archie even if it was a bit not good to show children pictures of dead people. Archie was a unique child and grown enough to understand. If John's daughter's first word was murder John would be livid.

John rubbed his face in frustration. He decided there was only one thing he could do until Sherlock returned: get Mary out of the picture, for good. John pulled his mobile from his pocket and dialled Mycroft.

If Mycroft had any thoughts on John's request he kept them to himself. Mycroft's only condition was that a DNA test be done on the baby before John was awarded sole custody. John snorted at Mycroft's flimsy explanation that it would make legal issues disappear but didn't argue. It wasn't that he doubted the excuse was true, John was sure it was, John was just as sure Mycroft doubted John's paternity.

"She needs to be gone for good, Mycroft." John insisted. Mycroft muttered platitudes but John needed to make sure. He hadn't forgotten Moriarty, released when it was convenient to wreak havoc on Sherlock's life. "I don't think you understand." Mycroft scoffed but John knew Sherlock never told him in a bid to protect John and keep his ridiculous vow. "Mary was the shooter, Mycroft. I won't have another Moriarty." There was silence following this statement. "I want your assurance she won't come back."

"Of course, John." Mycroft agreed.

Sherlock returned with food but John wasn't hungry. He wasn't sure he'd ever be hungry again. Sherlock also had information but John couldn't take in anything he was saying. John was sure Sherlock noticed something was different, wrong, but Sherlock didn't bring it up and John wasn't able to. John wanted to talk about other things, the least of which his living situation when he returned to London with his daughter but John found that all of his limited emotional strength had been used up by the request. The room felt heavy and Sherlock's staring was turning from curious stares to depressed glances. John knew Sherlock was coming to the wrong conclusions, how could he not? John shifted through all his thoughts for something related, a clue that he could give his friend without breaking. Mary and he hadn't yet decided on a name...

"What's your mum's name?"

Sherlock was startled by the question and put his food aside while he considered why John would ask. His face went blank and John didn't know if Sherlock understood, even his voice was flat as he answered, "Mary."

John choked, sputtering noodles across the bedspread. Sherlock got up, smacked his back a few times, his hits ineffective, feeble and weak.

"Her middle name was Liealia." Sherlock offered when John could breathe again.

"God!" John muttered after trying his hand at saying the name.

Sherlock smiled at John's butchering of the French name. John purposely mispronounced it worse and worse before finally rhyming it with mésallia in an awkward phrase then bemoaning the fate of his daughter. Sherlock barked a laugh at the sheer ridiculousness of John's performance then frowned in apparent horror at himself. John giggled and Sherlock relaxed, chuckling with him until the tension left the room. John finished the food, complimenting Sherlock on his find now that he could taste it. John thought Sherlock blushed but it could have been the fever and John decided to push his luck.

"I missed..." Once again John chickened out replacing _you_ with "this."

"Me too, John." Sherlock responded and before John could figure out if Sherlock was saying this or you or both Sherlock continued, "You'll want to clean the mess, this room has pests but they've tried to hide it." John's eyes widened in horror when he realized he hadn't checked for bedbugs. "No, only cockroaches. You can relax, John."

Later, when John was crawling under the covers Sherlock muttered, "Good night, John."

"'Night, Sherlock." John responded automatically.

"Don't let the bedbugs bite."

John started. "You said there weren't any." When John didn't get a response he pressed. Normally he was all for a joke but he hated the blood sucking pests with a passion one only gets when mild allergies and fear collide. "Sherlock?" Again, the man was silent. John sat up. "Seriously, Sherlock. You know if they get me I swell and itch for weeks."

"It's all in your head, John. The bites are only itchy for so long because you scratch and dwell." John could hear the smile in his voice.

"How would you-" John remembered falling asleep at the table one day and waking up covered in what he thought were mosquito bites. "Oh my god, you did an experiment, didn't you?"

"I tested several varieties. Although your bites did swell a little more than mine the ones you didn't scratch disappeared at the same rate. The species didn't matter although it was trickier to convince the Cimex pipistrelli to bite us properly."

John started scratching his legs, imagining the bugs crawling around in his pyjamas. His irritation at Sherlock experimenting on him pale in comparison to the fear of being stuck on a plane, or god forbid a stake out, covered in itchy bites.

"Relax, John. The only pest in here is me."

"What about the roaches?" John retorted, mostly to be difficult.

Sherlock huffed a laugh. "They won't bother us with all the delicious food we left in the bin in the bathroom as a temptation."

John relaxed, feeling safer and happier than he had since before Moriarty's trial. "You're a cock." He drifted into a hazy half-consciousness, hearing Sherlock mumble something about temptation that settled in his dreams as Sherlock experimenting with different ways to convince cockroaches to bite them. John woke up halfway through the dream when his bed dipped. He tried to swat Mary back to her side.

"The only outlet is there."

John mumbled at her to stop being a pest.

"I may be a cock but I'm not a roach, John." Sherlock laughed and John's dreams took a very pleasant twist.

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 **End A/N:**

 _One is for Sorrow,_  
 _Two is for Joy,_  
 _Three for a Girl,_  
 _Four for a Boy,_  
 _Five for Silver,_  
 _Six for Gold,_  
 _Seven for a Secret Never to be Told._  
 _Eight a Wish,_  
 _Nine a Kiss,_  
 _Ten is a Bird you Must Not Miss_


	2. One is for Sorrow: The Failure

A/N: Still don't have a beta or britpicker. Please comment with any mistakes you find or to volunteer.

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John woke up groggy. Sherlock, who wasn't normally a snorer, had slept deeply despite his clogged sinuses. Never mind the confusing dreams John had all night.

"Get up, John! We're going to miss them!"

"Alright already." John grumbled. He wiped grit from his eyes and ground his teeth at the lack of forethought. He should have taken a shower last night. There would be no time for one this morning. "Did you take your antibiotic?"

Sherlock grumbled as he swallowed a pill.

John went into the loo and apparently took too long because Sherlock entered and dragged him out of the room, toothbrush still in his mouth. Sherlock only noticed this when John couldn't answer when asked if he had his gun. If the consulting detective felt any chagrin he didn't show it, only irritation that John hadn't brought a handgun through customs. "I don't even have it anymore. They took it for evidence."

"Tedious." Sherlock mumbled and started texting. He had turned away but John still noticed when he wiped his nose.

When they exited the elevator a man dressed in a suit and wool overcoat handed John a package. "Your lunch, sir."

John peered into the brown paper bag to find a handgun. He looked up, alarmed.

"Mycroft." Sherlock explained without looking up from his phone.

Since he didn't slow his pace and John had stopped John had to jog to catch up. John shoved the gun into his pocket with his toothbrush.

...-...

"Who are we waiting for again?"

Sherlock shot him a look and John shut his mouth.

John always found this part of cases frustrating. Sherlock never told him what was going on and it usually resulted in disaster. John felt he could think on his feet as well as the next person; which is to say not very well at all. Usually when this happened John just waited as patiently as he could and did his best. But that was before Sherlock was shot by the woman they were hunting. John nodded to himself. It was time they communicated. "Sher-"

He was interrupted by a passerby dropping a piece of paper on the table.

"Finally!" Sherlock leapt on it like a hungry coyote. His eyes moved rapidly and John slid his chair back knowing what was going to happen next. "Come on!" Sherlock jumped to his feet and ran out of the cafe.

John sighed, feeling guilty for leaving the chairs pulled out and... There was a splash and a cry from the woman seated at the table next. Apparently Sherlock's drink was knocked over in his rush. "Sorry!" John called over his shoulder. He didn't know if the woman understood him but at least he'd tried.

They ran though the streets. Sherlock didn't pause throughout his coughing. John admired the skill that took. No matter how much time they spent together or how much John learned about his friend there was always something remarkable John was surprised he never knew. They ended up downtown in an office type district. Sherlock climbed a fire escape and John huffed at the people staring.

Sherlock ducked through a window, startling the woman inside. She screamed at him in Polish and Sherlock flipped his hand dismissively. The consulting menace said something to a man in a chair that had him flee the room in tears. The woman screeched in rage but Sherlock dismissed her. "Come in already, John. And do something about her." He then pulled out a pair of binoculars and stared into the building across the way.

The woman turned on John but with the language barrier there wasn't much he could do. He did manage to deflect a vase thrown at his friend's head but the resulting broken window had them both fleeing from the building's security then the police.

"Well, that was a waste of time." John said once they were safely back at the hotel.

Sherlock grunted but otherwise ignored John, choosing instead to text. Once he finished that he retreated into his mind palace.

John waited to see if he would ask questions but Sherlock was silent apart from the occasional disgruntled huff and suppressed sniffle. "Want to talk about it?" John asked when Sherlock finally returned.

The consulting detective looked at his phone. "No need."

John felt a stab of disappointment before reminding himself that it was his own fault. He was the one who pushed Sherlock away when he returned from the dead. Once it was clear Sherlock couldn't find a replacement he figured out a way to work on his own. Of course, none of it would have been necessary if he'd just taken John with him. "Stop it." John told himself.

Sherlock frowned in confusion and blinked at John, waiting for an explanation. When John declined to provide one Sherlock shrugged and opened a laptop.

John peered over his shoulder. "Oh my god!"

"They'll give us the signal when it's safe to move."

Mary, sweaty and exhausted was being provided with an epidural on the screen.

"We don't know how many spies are around so we'll wait until she's pushing. The agents will move in and we'll arrive just in time to collect your daughter." Sherlock explained.

John made a chocking sound. He felt he should be there, holding Mary's hand and helping her through it.

They took turns watching, switching whenever John became too agitated. Eventually Sherlock wouldn't leave the screen, he said it was close to time. More people entered the room, a doctor in a hospital mask and an entire troupe of nurses.

"No." Sherlock froze.

"What?"

"This is wrong. Those aren't Mycroft's- John!" Sherlock grabbed John's bicep roughly and shook him. "Snap out of it! We have to go!"

But John couldn't. His eyes were glued to the screen. The doctor, he knew those eyes. Those dark, dead, insane eyes. Moriarty. As John watched one of the "nurses" pulled a gun and shot Mary between the eyes. John cried out and his vision became blurry. It didn't shield him from the blood seeping though the hospital's pristine white pillow and sheets before dripping to the floor.

"JOHN!" Sherlock shouted before giving up and throwing John over his shoulder.

No matter how much John struggled Sherlock didn't let him go. Later John would reflect that he had no idea how they made it through the lobby without someone stopping them. It had to have looked like a kidnapping.

John punched Sherlock properly once they were on the pavement and Sherlock had set him down.

Sherlock staggered backwards, clutching his cheekbone. "Damn it, John! We don't have time for this!"

"You were supposed to protect them!" John shouted before leaping at his friend.

This time Sherlock was prepared. He dodged the tackle and John ended up in a headlock. John fought viciously but when spots started clouding his vision Sherlock's words finally got through the red haze of rage. "...we can still save your daughter! But we have to move!"

John went limp so Sherlock would let him go. Once free he coughed. His throat hurt and he had bruises from beating on his friend but was otherwise fine. "Sorry." He rasped. "Jesus, Sherlock. Sorry." The guilt threatened to overwhelm him. He hadn't been like this before Mary. Just thinking her name made John choke up.

Sherlock ordered John to have his mental breakdown later and used his magic to hail a taxi.

The cab ride was silent but for Sherlock's furious texting, coughing and sniffles. The coughing was much worse. John didn't know if the cold was getting worse if Sherlock was just suffering from the exertion. A nasty thought left John's mouth before he could stop it. "I didn't break your ribs, did I?"

After frown and a stretch Sherlock said no.

"But, you wouldn't know." John reasoned.

A dark shadow crossed Sherlock's face but he didn't argue.

John licked his lips and considered pressing the issue but decided against it. If Sherlock did have a broken rib there was nothing he could do about it now. Sherlock was stubborn and wouldn't listen to reason. He'd continue searching for John's daughter even if it killed him. The hairs on the back of John's neck stood up after that last thought and a sudden chill made him shiver. He saw a lone magpie fly along the car. John eyed the bird warily and they had a small staring contest. The bird squawked and left. Sherlock and the cabbie hadn't noticed it.

It started snowing and the cabbie slowed despite Sherlock's vociferous protests. Finally the cabbie had enough and threw them out. Sherlock started running and John followed.

They arrived at the hospital. Sherlock ran to the scene and took only a brief glance before leaving.

John just stared.

He stared at his wife: at the small hole in her head, at the open eyes with fixed pupils, at the hair that had been dyed to a dark chestnut, but mostly he stared at the long bloody gash that was clearly a caesarean section cut made with no regard to the life of the mother. John stepped closer to look at the surgery site. It was clear the baby was still alive, somewhere.

Everyone expected John to break, to cry, scream and rage. And John wanted to. But he couldn't because he was a father now. Besides, in a way, hadn't John asked Mycroft for the same thing? So, John did what he had so much practice doing: he swallowed his emotions, schooled his face and asked the nearest spook where his daughter was.

Of course the man didn't speak English so John went to find Sherlock.

"How is it that no one here speaks English?!"

Sherlock froze before turning to look at John with wide eyes, "What?"

"That man-" John gestured to Mary's room. "-he doesn't speak any English."

One of the spooks moved his hand to his ear and shouted, "The room, go!" Then all the agents in the room and Sherlock left in a stampede.

John didn't understand what was going on so he turned to see what everyone was looking at. It was a map of the hospital floor plans. John examined them but they didn't make any sense. What was supposed to be the maternity wing, John assumed since that's where they were, was nowhere near a surgical site. John frowned and went back to Mary's room. He ignored everyone and the body and just looked.

"What is it?" Sherlock asked.

"It's not right."

"What?"

"These are normal hospital beds. They don't have stirrups or anything. And there are none of the normal machines here." John realized he was onto something. He ran out the door, Sherlock on his heels. After a thorough examination he turned to Sherlock, "Where is the nursery?"

"The West wing, down two floors." Sherlock answered promptly.

"So why was Mary here?"

"These are the birthing rooms."

"Then why are they so far from the nursery? Is the neonatal unit here?"

"No, it's downstairs too." Sherlock blinked rapidly. "Oh!" He gasped. "John you're a genius!" Sherlock ran to the spooks and they regrouped over the floor plans.

They argued, the date on the plans were from when the hospital was built but it was obvious that they were completely wrong. One of the other men said they probably just moved things around as they got more technology which caused Sherlock to verbally assault him to tears.

"Sherlock." John warned.

Sherlock blinked at John like he hadn't remembered he was there. He shook it off quickly though. "See, they knew we were coming. They didn't use ink like this and the paper is all wrong for the date too. These floor plans are fakes. Mary must have gone to Moriarty for help-"

"No." John interjected. "She was scared of him. Terrified. She was a good actress but it was obvious."

Everyone considered this.

"Then he found her. He got to her first." Sherlock concluded. He frowned and retreated to his mind palace.

A man in a suit appeared in the door. "We found him, sir. He was exactly where you said he'd be."

"Who?" John asked.

"Moriarty's agent." Sherlock said with his eyes still semi-glazed. He shook himself and asked, "Have you questioned him yet?"

"No, sir. We were waiting for you."

Sherlock nodded and spun dramatically before being overcome with a coughing fit. He doubled over, wheezing and hacking painfully. Everyone surrounding him winced.

"And your brother is on his way, sir."

John nodded at the agent because Sherlock still hadn't caught his breath. Then John went over and touched his friend's forehead. "You're burning up!" John scolded.

"I'm fine." Sherlock shrugged as if nothing had happened. "Let's go."

"Go where? You can't go anywhere like that!" John was having trouble keeping the exasperation out of his voice.

Little wrinkles appeared between Sherlock's eyebrows. "We have to find your daughter, John."

John felt empty. "I- I- I thought she was in the nursery." He stammered.

"No, John." Sherlock looked physically ill. "Moriarty has her."

Everyone had their breaking point and that was John's. He stumbled backwards, moved by some unknown force. He made it out of the room before he became violently ill. He braced his arm against the wall, nails digging into the plastic-y wallpaper. When the nauseous rolls of his stomach stopped he let out a great anguished wail.

"John?" Sherlock asked timidly, his hand raised over John's shoulder.

John gave up and ran into his best friend's arms. Said arms wavered a bit but they closed around John's body as he shook with sobs. John felt his friend start swaying back and forth gently as one of his hands moved in circles on John's back. Sherlock's other hand found its way up and long fingers tenderly stroked John's hair.

"Don't worry, John. I'll find her. She'll be alright."

After a sniffle John discreetly wiped his nose and looked up.

"I already failed once. I won't fail again."

"Promise?"

"If it's the last thing I do your daughter will be back in your arms." Sherlock vowed.

John saw the determination in his friend's eyes and nodded once. He took a couple steps back away from Sherlock and the mess on the floor and glanced around. None of the spooks were anywhere to be seen. John looked back and met Sherlock's eyes again. They were red now, in addition to being grey and glassy. "Let's get you back to the hotel room and get some medicine in you."

Sherlock opened his mouth to argue but a wheezing cough came out instead of words. "Ok." He agreed once the fit was over.

Once they had some food and were back at the hotel room Sherlock downed half the bottle of cough syrup much to John's dismay and argued with John over the Paracetamol. John stamped his foot and shouted while holding the tablets. "There's already some in that cough syrup you can't take more."

Sherlock growled but stopped arguing. He picked up his phone, read a text message then threw the device at the wall.

"Watch it!"

Sherlock fell backwards onto his bed with a huff that turned into a small cough.

"What? Aren't we going?"

"We can't question him until Mycroft comes." Sherlock said without looking away from the ceiling.

John picked up the phone and read the message himself. He was frustrated too and felt very much like shattering the screen by stepping on it repeatedly but refrained. Instead he took the phone back to Sherlock who held it between his steepled hands and closed his eyes.

"How long?"

"At least six hours." Sherlock replied remaining mostly motionless.

John nodded. He was exhausted. He decided a little nap was in order if he could get to sleep. John toed off his shoes and climbed into his bed. But every time he closed his eyes he saw Mary's body or envisioned something horrible happening to his daughter. John sighed in frustration and rolled over. The light faded from the windows, Sherlock's wheezes turned into snores and John finally fell asleep.

...-...

Sherlock was upset in the morning. He hadn't intended to fall asleep and was ranting about the wasted time.

John felt better after his nap and knew Sherlock did too. Not once did his ramblings get interrupted with a cough. "Nothing for it now. You ready?" John asked when there was a knock at the door.

The Belstaff billowed as Sherlock turned without an answer.

They stopped at a cafe so Sherlock could get a little food to take his antibiotic. Sherlock bought a bunch of pastries for his brother in retaliation for the delay.

An agent put a code into a key pad once they were in a parking gauge elevator. The lift took them down below the lowest floors and opened to what John could only assume was a secret lair. The place was bright and crowded.

John noticed agents, police and what he assumed were diplomats working together. "All of this is for me?" He asked Sherlock quietly.

"Moriarty." Sherlock corrected. "We assured everyone he was dead but it's obvious we were wrong. They're trying to figure out what he was up to while I was dismantling his network."

John huffed.

"And trying to find your daughter, of course." Sherlock murmured.

They walked into a large conference room. "So, how did he survive?"

"A good question, John." Mycroft answered. "Sherlock, care to explain?"

"Jim from IT."

A lot of the faces around the table were surprised but more were confused so John asked, "What?"

"Moriarty used his position in IT to change out the hospital's system. At the same time he changed his records, DNA, health, anything he could get his hands on."

"But you were with him." John pointed out. That rooftop scene still haunted him.

Mycroft's face darkened.

"I was..." Sherlock faltered.

"High. I believe." Mycroft oozed. "Fooled by a simple blood pack and a blank."

"Are you serious?!" John's indignation seemed to be mirrored by those around the table.

"My pupils needed to stay fixed..." Sherlock trailed off when it was clear no one was listening.

People were starting to turn on the younger brother. John heard one of them say Sherlock shouldn't be pardoned and decided it was time to take a stand. "What the hell, Mycroft?!"

"I beg your pardon?"

"This was all your idea. Sherlock threw himself off a roof and you couldn't even bother to confirm a dead body was who it was supposed to be?"

"We ran DNA-"

John cut him off. "Through a system that was obviously compromised! Did you even bother to go to a different hospital than the one _he worked at?!_ "

Everyone was silent for a moment. Mycroft looked as close to abashed as he could get. Sherlock's face was starting to twitch to a self satisfied smile so John stepped on his toes. He didn't want the room's attention, and blame, to circle back to Sherlock.

"Ah, Anthea." Mycroft addressed his PA as soon as she entered the room. "Is everything ready?"

She didn't bother looking up from her phone to confirm.

Sherlock and John were chivvied behind a two way mirror to watch the proceedings. Mycroft started with easy questions, "What is your name?" He asked these in a language that John didn't understand. Sherlock translated for him.

"Igor Oliver Ulman."

"Who do you work for?"

"You already know that, Mr. Holmes."

Mycroft paused here.

Sherlock was nearly vibrating next to John.

"Where is the baby?"

"She's in a better place. You will be too."

Sherlock started slamming his fists against the window. John saw what Sherlock did, Igor was moving. It looked like he was reaching inside his belly button.

John swore and ran to the door.

The sound of shattering glass made John turn. Sherlock vaulted though the hole, cutting his hand on glass shards.

John opened the door and helped Sherlock carry the body down the hallway away from the room before checking for a pulse.

"Wake up you fat git! We don't have time for this now!"

"Sherlock." John warned.

"I have your favourite in the other room, I know they told you. Babka, real Babka."

"Sherlock!"

"Do something, John!" Sherlock begged before turning back to his brother. "Mycroft you can't leave me again. You promised you'd always come back. You _promised!_ " He snarled.

John was doing something; he was protecting Sherlock's back from Moriarty's plastic shiv wielding henchman. John dodged the first two stabs and reached into his pocket for his gun. He pulled out the toothbrush first and the other man threw back his head and laughed. So John took advantage of the opportunity and stabbed him down his throat with it.

The man chocked and retched on the foreign object allowing John to disarm him.

John turned, looking to Sherlock for approval or at least assistance restraining the man but all John could see was Mycroft. The elder brother was pale and clammy. Sherlock was using his scarf to put pressure on the haemorrhaging wound.

"Help me, John!" Sherlock begged with a bloody handprint on his cheek.

So John did.

* * *

End A/N: Hit that subscribe button or follow me on tumblr theArtOne or twitter gizmoTrinket221 for updates.


	3. One is for Sorrow: The Fall

A/N: I don't know anything about Ukrainian so we get Google Translate. You're warned. And if you can help the translation lemme know. As always, no beta, no britpick and comments on my mistakes are welcome. It's how I learn. :)

BTW, I've gone over this chapter so many times my printer ran out of ink. I'm still not happy and that's probably because it was supposed to be the last chapter of this section but got too long. I've gotten to the point that it's becoming overworked so you get it early.

* * *

Mycroft would be fine. He was being treated here, in this secret lair, since no one was positive he'd be safe at the hospitals. John ended up doing the surgery and his hand didn't shake once. John enjoyed taking command but it just didn't feel right. It wasn't because there was no sun or sand either. He wasn't a doctor anymore. Not like that anyway. That part of his life was behind him. When John washed his hands after the surgery he didn't put his wedding band back on. That part of his life was behind him too.

It was horrible, John knew, that he'd ordered a hit on his wife. But everything to do with Mary ended up being horrible. Besides, the Mary John married never existed. And in the end it didn't matter that John made that call to Mycroft because Mary's past caught up to her first.

John sighed at himself, no matter how he tried to rationalize it he still felt guilty.

With Mycroft out of commission there was a hole left in the command structure and his brother filled it. Sherlock was kept busy by conducting interviews with everyone in the compound. The spy of Moriarty's they'd caught had escaped and Sherlock was sure someone helped him. But whoever it was either escaped as well or wasn't at the compound. Mycroft's people didn't run the spy through an x-ray, only did a body-cavity search and used a metal detector. Sherlock was inappropriately impressed by the handmade plastic weapon but it was a dead end too. It turned out to be made from an overly common ballpoint pen. The man's language and accent told Sherlock more. The room provided some DNA; the shiv had cut the spy and there was blood on the chair but it too was a dead end. There wasn't enough blood to get an accurate DNA profile and any remaining on the plastic would be mixed with Mycroft's. There was, however, enough blood to show that the hair sample taken from the spy didn't match. John's toothbrush might have had some excellent DNA samples on it but the spy took it with him.

"It's fascinating, John." Sherlock said, once John had joined him. "He had hair transplanted from someone else. Moriarty has been planning this for a long time."

John felt Moriarty had been several steps ahead of them since the beginning and almost didn't say anything. But, "It's like he knew exactly what would happen," slipped out in his exhaustion.

"Hm?"

"Moriarty. He knew his spy would be caught and he knew exactly where they'd take hair. That they'd take hair and not a blood sample or cheek swab. You know?"

Sherlock was staring at John like he'd never seen him before. It was making John really uncomfortable. "What?"

"Fascinating." Sherlock said instead of answering. "What else have you noticed?"

"About what?"

"Stop playing dumb, John. You've been holding out on me."

John blushed.

"Start at the beginning." Sherlock ordered. "The very first case. With the cabbie."

"The Princess Bride." John explained because Sherlock, of course, had never heard of the movie, "So the Sicilian, who thinks he's smart but is actually an idiot, swaps the cups and drinks but only after Westley takes a sip first. So, you see, he thought he was safe-"

Sherlock interrupted. "That's not stupid, he wouldn't have drank the poison without a tell!"

"Right. But Westley-" John had left out the whole Dread Pirate Roberts part because he didn't want Sherlock to go on one of his pirate rants, "-cheated. He had built up an immunity to Iocane powder and both cups were poisoned."

Sherlock blinked rapidly and sat back slowly. He was clearly going though the entire scene with the cabbie and applying this new information. "That doesn't make sense. Mithridatism doesn't work with cyanide and Hope lived though the first suicides." Sherlock said when he emerged.

"Who said he played the same game with you as he did with everyone else?" John could tell Sherlock wasn't swayed so he continued. "Let's say, he had a bottle full of pills and told them only one was poisoned and they had to choose or he shot them?" Sherlock didn't say anything in response and John wasn't sure he'd gotten the point. "What if Hope felt bad for killing all those people, didn't want to do Moriarty's bidding anymore or just had enough money and was ready to die? What if it was supposed to look like a double suicide?"

"Maybe he didn't want to go down as a murderer if he was caught later." Sherlock murmured. His eyes were misty but turned sharp when they focused on John. "You're an idiot."

"Hey!"

"You could have been helping me _this whole time_ but instead you were playing dumb! I have the yard for that!" Sherlock snapped.

"You're the genius. I'm just the audience."

"No, John." Sherlock shook his head. "You're my colleague."

John recognized the compliment but it didn't sit well with him. It reminded him of that snake Wilkes at the bank. God, how John wanted to punch him! John hadn't resisted the urge with the police chief. "Friend." John corrected. " _Best_ friend."

Sherlock frowned and thought. "Partner?"

That word had a lot of definitions and made John pause. Did Sherlock intend the romantic context? John wasn't gay. He'd had plenty of women. He _liked_ women. It didn't stop him from liking men, from liking Sherlock. John shook his head. Sherlock probably didn't mean that at all. But, if he did, John found he wasn't opposed to the idea like he used to be. Maybe it was that he'd matured past his issues caring what other people thought or maybe John just couldn't stand the idea of marrying another woman. He didn't want to examine it too closely. "Partners." John agreed, because either way Sherlock meant it, romantic or no, John was happy to oblige.

Sherlock lit up and John wished he could read minds.

"Now, tell me everything else." The consulting detective demanded.

John did in shifts between taking care of Mycroft since the elder brother opted against bringing his doctor here. Some of the things he said he could tell Sherlock dismissed but when John got to the Connie Prince case Sherlock realized a mistake.

"Did you really think that TV woman was murdered by the cat?"

"Yes." John said flatly. The humiliation from that case still stung.

"You were right." John's face must have scared Sherlock because he flapped his hands energetically on the next sentence, "Not about the cat! But, Connie Prince wasn't murdered by houseboy."

"What?" John asked, weary after talking so long.

"Her brother murdered her."

"What? Sherlock, no-"

"No, John! I got it wrong! Moriarty told the woman to say that about his voice to throw me off! I was wrong!"

"What?"

"It was her brother. Raoul wasn't the only one giving those injections. It was easy to just use the one account to buy the Botox for both siblings. Obvious!"

John felt like a broken record but he still didn't understand. "What?"

"Her brother got everything, right? And Raoul wouldn't have known to go to Moriarty. It's not like he had anything for Moriarty to gain. All the cases were from Moriarty's consulting criminal network. The brother, however, had everything. And with both the houseboy and his sister out of the way..."

"Oh, my god." John gasped. He remembered how Connie's brother hit on him and how Raoul seemed to seethe in the background. Did Raoul take the fall because he was in love? Something in John withered at the thought.

"I'll need to look at the case again. Once we're back in London."

"Were you doing Moriarty's dirty work the whole time?"

"The painting... He lost money there. What could he have gained...?" Sherlock mused.

"The painter?" John suggested.

Sherlock pulled at his hair. "I don't know!" He jumped up as if to pace the room but wobbled and had to grab the back of his chair to steady himself. "I have to _see._ I don't-"

John stood and touched Sherlock's arm. "Hey, it's ok."

"How? How, John?!" Sherlock snuffled and John wasn't sure it was entirely due to his cold.

John's uncertainty allowed him to overcome the part of himself that liked to hide behind walls and say the next part aloud. "Because we can set it right. Together."

Sherlock looked at John, startled. They stared into each other's eyes for longer than normal, which was already longer than John could stand looking at other people. John's eyes flicked down to Sherlock's lips and when he looked back up Sherlock's eyes were wide. John started to lean in...

And Sherlock sneezed.

John wiped his face.

Sherlock looked mortified.

And John couldn't help it, he started giggling. They made quite the pair, Sherlock had a cold and John hadn't brushed his teeth in days. John hadn't gotten a replacement toothbrush yet.

Sherlock joined in after a moment and John laughed harder. "Come on, idiot. You need rest to get over your cold." John knew if Sherlock stayed he'd keep working so they went back to the hotel. John's coat was left hanging on a hook down in the compound. He forgot it there and didn't bother turning back once he realized his mistake in the winter cold because he thought he'd be back soon enough tomorrow and Sherlock looked about ready to fall over. Knowing Sherlock they'd be lucky to get four hours of sleep. They were in the middle of a case after all.

After a lecture about the proper way to take antibiotics and why this procedure was so important, which John was sure Sherlock set aside to delete if he even bothered to listen in the first place, both men went to sleep. For Sherlock this was the first rest he'd had in three days.

John had planned on putting Sherlock on IV antibiotics after a couple tests in the morning but he didn't get the chance.

Sherlock's brain, instead of turning off while the man was sleeping, seemed to run even faster and Sherlock woke up knowing where John's daughter was. He woke John up with the usual manic energy he got whenever there was about to be a chase and John was swept up in it. Of course, the fact that it was four in the morning might have dampened John's thinking processes too. Because Sherlock didn't say where they were going or bother to explain the plan. As far as John was aware they could just as easily be going on a stake out as a shoot out. Not that the two were mutually exclusive.

John's throat hurt but he ignored it. His snoring probably woke Sherlock up. It seemed fair to John that he got a turn.

And John, who felt like it was just like old times didn't bother to ask questions. Just jumped out of his bed and followed. He grabbed his lighter coat and put it over his warmest jumper and followed Sherlock out the door, never missing the weight of his gun. He'd gotten used to going out without it once he'd gotten married. Mary had always hated the thing.

Sherlock and John ended up outside a shabby apartment complex. "Notice anything, John?"

"Why does a rundown place like this have a door man? And why isn't he in the foyer?" Without waiting for further prompting John also told Sherlock about the three patrols.

Sherlock nodded and noted the used needles discarded on the lawn. "It's a drug house. Or, it used to be."

"It's not now?" John asked.

Instead of answering Sherlock circled the block. He stopped behind a seedy bar and picked the lock to the root cellar.

"What are you doing?" John hissed under his breath.

"See the way the lock is hanging? It can be opened from inside or outside." The lock clicked and Sherlock opened the doors.

John looked around but didn't see anyone. The bar was closed.

Sherlock jumped down into the dark and landed with an... "Oomph."

"Careful." John warned belatedly. He lowered himself in and could hear Sherlock laughing at his dangling legs. "Shut up." John snapped as he flailed. "Aren't there supposed to be stairs?" A ladder appeared below John's feet. John climbed down and patted the dirt from his clothing. "Now what?"

It was dim but the light from the city outside was enough to show they weren't in a root cellar. It was a tunnel. Sherlock looked to John and they nodded at each other before following. Sherlock led carrying a torch. John was always impressed by the seemingly random assortment of items Sherlock carried at any given time. John shuddered to think what his backpack looked like as a child.

The tunnel ended in a dead end. There were no steps or ladders. Sherlock spun, hands to his head before turning back to where a bookshelf leaned against the wall. Sherlock inspected it, looking to see if the tunnel continued behind it.

"Sherlock." John pointed up.

The consulting detective looked up and saw the trap door. The sturdy bookshelf was clearly being used as a makeshift ladder. It would be dismissed as one of the many pieces of broken useless furniture stored down here if the tunnel was ever discovered. Sherlock climbed up and put his ear to the trap door. John didn't make any noise and waited for over five minutes before Sherlock clicked off the light and opened it.

This one had a lock on the inside but Sherlock managed to get an angle after John climbed up and held the door. Sherlock had trouble, the lighting here was near non-existent and he'd patched his hand up with superglue. John wondered if Sherlock had bothered to check it for glass shards before sealing it. Sherlock cursed under his breath as the picks slipped and John guessed not.

"Give me your gun." Sherlock whispered, hand out.

"You can't shoot a lock like that!" John argued. He went to put his hand over his pocket so that Sherlock wouldn't try to steal the gun anyway in frustration and groaned when he realized it was gone.

Sherlock huffed but went back to work. After a few minutes the clock clicked and Sherlock removed it. They carefully opened the door and set it on the ground noiselessly before they climbed out.

John heard it first, the sound of a baby crying. "Sherlock." John whispered.

Sherlock nodded.

John wished he had his gun or even his toothbrush. He ran his tongue over his grimy teeth. It was a marker of how dire their weapon situation was that John was wishing for a _toothbrush_ of all things.

They both crept down the hallway and John stopped when Sherlock put a hand on his shoulder. A pipe was broken from a radiator located under a dumbwaiter. John found the positioning odd. Sherlock kneeled over it to see if he could unscrew the other end without making any noise. John walked down a little ways to keep a lookout. Sherlock couldn't move the bolt without tools but the turn after that was rusted and when Sherlock put some pressure on it the pipe broke. Sherlock walked up to John and handed the pipe to him.

John tested the weight and balance of the pipe and smiled at his friend. Sherlock had a faraway look in his eyes that John didn't understand but when John lowered the pipe it went away.

The hallway led to the lobby. John peered around the corner so he could see the whole room and Sherlock loomed over him, practically resting his chin on John's head. There were a lot of men surrounding a cot. If they had come in the front door they would have been a step lower and wouldn't have been able to see the baby monitor.

It was clearly a trap.

John took a couple steps back and spoke to Sherlock in whispers. "Did you see the baby monitor?"

"Yes." Sherlock hissed the word, seemingly affronted that John would think he hadn't observed something.

"So where's my daughter?"

"Upstairs, most likely."

John had seen a lift in the lobby but there had to be stairs somewhere. Just as he turned to look for some Sherlock opened a door. It led to a dimly lit stairwell.

The partners smiled at each other. Sherlock held the door for John and when John passed him he could hear Sherlock's wheezing breaths. When this was over Sherlock was going to get some rest, John decided. The cold would have been gone by now if Sherlock had bothered to try taking care of himself. John remembered some of the other times Sherlock was sick. At the time John hated it because his friend turned from a giant six year old to an enormous baby but now John was looking forward to it. It would be nice to be back in 221B and be allowed to take care of Sherlock again.

They climbed the stairs as quickly as they could while still being quiet. At each floor they opened the stairwell door and listened. The crying was loudest on the second floor. Sherlock went into the hallway first, looking back and forth before motioning for John to follow.

John held the pipe at ready and kept an eye on their six as they crept past empty rooms. It felt strange, not going to each one to make sure there were no threats hiding that could bite them later but, being armed with a pipe and not a gun, John shook off the impulse. John was feeling... off. His head was starting to swim and his nose hurt. "Do you smell something?" John asked.

Sherlock gave him a look.

Of course Sherlock couldn't smell anything. John rolled his eyes at himself. "Never mind," he whispered and motioned to keep going.

There was noise coming from down the hall. It sounded like a herd of elephants climbing stairs. Sherlock grabbed John's arm and pulled him into a room. Sherlock listened at the door while John checked to make sure they were alone in the dirty room. Besides some filthy mattresses they were. John wiped his nose and realized the place should have stank. He sniffed but couldn't smell anything. His sinuses were stuffed. He'd caught Sherlock's cold. That explained why his throat hurt. "Damnit!"

"Shh!" Sherlock was listening raptly at the doorway.

There were several voices, all shouting. They sounded panicked.

"Do they know we're here?" John whispered. He wanted to be prepared.

"Shh!"

John glared at his friend but quieted. When he listened he could tell they were all speaking the same language with the same accent as the spy they'd caught. It sounded like Russian but John couldn't be sure.

"We have to go." Sherlock didn't bother to whisper.

"What? But the baby!" John protested.

"That's what I mean!" Sherlock said while running out the door.

John chased. "Sherlock!" He uttered the name like a curse.

They were spotted by men leaving a room near the stairwell. One of the men shouted a warning, "газ!" but the other seemed to understand they weren't with them and aimed his weapon. "немає! газ!" The first said, this time at his cohort. The second man spat and they both ran down the stairs. Meanwhile Sherlock didn't stop running. The crying had stopped and that worried John. Had they killed her? An elephantine sense of panic welled in John's chest and he ran faster. Sherlock ran into a room without bothering to stop to open the door. The damp, mildewed, hollow piece of wood splintered as Sherlock's shoulder hit it. John winced in sympathy but followed without hesitating.

There was a man in the room. He had a gun. He lifted it and pointed it at Sherlock. Sherlock ignored him and ran to the window. It must have been painted or rusted shut because it didn't open when Sherlock pulled on it.

John lifted his pipe and stared at the man. He didn't want to scare the man into shooting; he was obviously unsettled by the idea. John couldn't understand why but he was glad for it. The man could easily have taken them both and the baby out before John could get to him.

"You're too late." The man said. He started laughing maniacally.

There was something familiar about him. Those eyes...

Sherlock gave up and just broke the window. "Grab your daughter!"

John looked away from their enemy too see if his friend was serious.

Sherlock was.

The man backed to the door keeping the gun trained on them. John traded sides with him, moving as he moved, keeping the cot between them until their positions were reversed except with John on the other side of the room. "The baby, John!" Sherlock's voice shook. He was scared, John realized.

John picked up his daughter gingerly. She didn't stir. John stared at her, feeling dread. Something was wrong. He turned to his friend, "Sher-"

The man whose suit was far too nice for a thug interrupted. "There's no way out, Sherlock. It's just you and me. I didn't plan on you breaking the gas line though. Ingenious, really. Got all of my guards out. Although, it did kill the baby." He frowned. "And you, soon enough."

Sherlock grabbed John from behind around his waist. "Do you trust me?" He asked in John's ear.

"What?!" John blinked. He was having a hard time thinking.

The man started ranting. "Good riddance. That baby just wouldn't SHUT. UP." He shouted the last two words. "Although, I was rather looking forward to painting the walls with her brains. Watching you kill your own daughter, though!"

"Do you trust me, John?" Sherlock asked urgently.

"Yeah, of course."

"This will haunt you _forever._ " He said the last word nearly orgasmically.

"Hold onto her." Sherlock said, while he pulled John backwards to the window.

"What?"

"There's a skip below. We're going to aim for it when we jump out."

"WHAT?!" John felt float-y and he wasn't sure any of this was real. "This is the second story!"

"I know. I'm going to cushion you and you'll cushion her."

"Sherlock, this is insane!"

"Yes," the crazy man agreed. He looked dead now. There was blood oozing from the black pits where his eyes should be. "But you can't get out this door without me firing."

"It's gas." Sherlock said as he climbed onto the window ledge. "There's gas flooding the building. We don't have time to go downstairs and I... It'll be fine. The skip is filled with boxes, it's the best chance."

"Cheating, Sherlock. You're chea-ting!" The man sang the last word and broke into giggles. "You know what happens to naughty little boys when they cheat?"

"No." John shook his head. He turned to look at Sherlock. To show him how not ok this idea was. Plus he needed to ground himself. The man reminded John of Moriarty but Moriarty was dead. Wasn't he? It couldn't be him. John needed to look into Sherlock's eyes to make the nightmare go away.

Sherlock didn't let him.

John felt Sherlock's grip tighten around his waist then all of a sudden they were falling. John yelped and held tight to his daughter. There was a sound of a gun going off and John grunted as something tore into his leg. As John's vision filled with a sky lighted by sunrise and fire he could have sworn he saw a magpie.

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End A/N: You can watch as I turn into salt in real time on my twitter: gizmotrinket221 I also post story updates there.


	4. One is for Sorrow: The Landing

A/N: Have a box of tissues ready? Ok, here we go.

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Noise. Everything around John was noise. There was the horrifying, crunching, ringing, "Kkkrr-thwinnnngggggggg..." that was the man below him hitting the the skip. There was the child in his arms screaming in fear, whether from the sensation of falling or from the explosion John wasn't sure. Maybe it was the landing. Then there was the fire. It roared with a ferocity unparalleled as it devoured the building they were just in. There were sirens too.

Everything that wasn't noise was pain. John's leg was in agony. John knew what being shot in the shoulder felt like and he had to say, being shot in the leg was vastly different. Mostly because this bullet missed the bones. The pain echoed in John's shoulder and John found that very strange. Did bullet pain echo in a previous wound? It didn't seem right.

The magpie landed on the edge of the skip and squawked at John. John was fairly certain he was high because it was like the bird was pleading with him. John didn't have anything to give the bird though. John had a coughing fit before he could speak. "Sherlock?" John asked. "Sherlock, what does the bird want?"

There was only wheezing in response.

John coughed again and tried to settle the bundle in his arms.

When the bird saw the baby it fled.

John understood; the crying was giving him a headache too. "Sherlock, can you help me up? I think I've been shot." This time was nothing like the last time he was shot. He was still awake. Which, John decided, made this wound worse. And why was his shoulder still hurting?!

"John?" A deep baritone wheezed. "Are you..." He coughed wetly, "alright?"

Not having enough hands to hold his child and look at his leg John decided the baby would be safe enough if he set her in one of the boxes. When he did she cried louder but he needed to stop his bleeding if he was going to be of any use to her. John winced as he sat up because something was pulling on his shoulder. He ground his teeth and ignored the pain. Without scissors to cut his trouser leg off he couldn't get a good look at his wound. He decided to just use his belt as a tourniquet until someone found them. "Good thing we're not in Afghanistan, yeah?" John said to Sherlock. "Although, a morphine lolly sounds good right now."

Sherlock groaned below him.

There was another smaller explosion and John hid turned to protect the baby. He was counting on the skip to help protect Sherlock. A brick fell from above and hit the edge making another loud, "Kkkrr-thwinnnngggggggg..."

There was rebar in the box. The baby was uncomfortable. That's why she was screaming. But if one box was full... Reality hit John like one hundred of those bricks.

"Sherlock!" John turned.

Sherlock was pale. John could tell he was breathing because the bubble in the blood coming from his mouth rhythmically grew and shrunk. Sherlock didn't respond to John's cry.

John blinked away the tears and tried to look at his friend- partner -clinically. His leg was broken where it had hit the edge of the skip. Both the tibia and fibula were probably shattered judging by the angle it was hanging at. John figured it could have been worse. Like Sherlock's spine or his skull. Or even his femur. John's vision blurred and he couldn't figure out why. He blinked rapidly and tears fell. "Oh." John had this happen to him before. His friend, over in Afghanistan, the one he cared about. There was no saving him. His mind had tried to shield him. "Sherlock?" John asked shakily. There wasn't much room to manoeuvre in a skip filled with boxes of rebar but John did his best to get off his friend and shield him and the child from the fire at the same time. "Sherlock." John's hands fluttered uselessly.

"John?" Sherlock's voice was thin and weak.

"I'm here. I'm ok." John blinked away more tears. "You're going to be ok too. We'll get you all patched up."

"You're a terrible liar. Have I ever told you that?" Sherlock's red lips curved into a smile.

A piece of the rebar had pierced Sherlock through his lung and travelled through to John's shoulder. There was no way for John to remove it. "HELP!" John screamed at the firemen. "I NEED SOME HELP OVER HERE!" It was clear John couldn't be heard over the fire.

"John."

"Stop. Just... There has to be something..." John looked around but could hardly see through his own tears.

"I love you."

"No."

"You should know-" he coughed, "-since I won't be able to tell you later." Sherlock wheezed again. "Moriarty's not coming back from _that_."

"No." John refused to let this happen. "No, you're going to be ok. Just..." John looked to the street where the flashing lights were coming from. It'd be difficult but he could make it on one leg. "Just hold on. Ok? Hold on, Sherlock. You're going to be fine."

"Horrible liar." Sherlock wheeze-chuckled.

"Shut up. Just shut up." John's chest heaved. The baby cried, smoke billowed and John looked up and wiped his eyes. There were people coming. Someone had seen them. Or maybe they heard the baby. John could have cheered. "People are coming. Help is coming, Sherlock." John looked down because Sherlock didn't say anything. "Sherlock?" John touched his friend's cheek. It was cold. "Sherlock?!" John knew it would make the injuries worse but Sherlock's pupils were fixed and he was just looking at nothing. " _SHERLOCK_!" John's voice wasn't the only thing that broke on his cry.

...-...

The doctors wouldn't release John from the hospital without someone to oversee him. That was bad, John knew. People kept trying to get him to talk, or do anything really. All John could do was cry. He didn't care about showering and he didn't care who saw him. There was no point to pretending to be ok anymore. John wasn't sure he'd ever be ok again. He curled up into a ball on the bed and hid under the covers. He just wanted to be left alone.

...-...

"John. That's enough. My brother wouldn't want you to do this to yourself. You have a daughter to look after now."

John was tempted to tell Mycroft to piss off but he didn't have the energy. There wasn't anyone to laugh anymore. The fact that Mycroft came this time was proof of that.

...-...

"You should know that I don't blame you for his death. No one does."

John blamed himself.

"It was a trap and Sherlock knew it. He thought it was the best chance to get your daughter back. He didn't trust my agents. There was a mole somewhere and he wouldn't take the risk. If this is anyone's fault it's mi-"

"Don't," John said shakily. He didn't look at Mycroft. "He told me he loved me. And you know what I said? I told him to shut up."

Mycroft didn't say anything.

"Those were my last words to him. Do you know how that feels?"

"No," Mycroft answered the rhetorical question. "I doubt very much anyone knows how that feels."

"I do." John watched as water dripped in his IV.

"Plenty of people regret their last words to others." There was a shuffling sound as Mycroft shifted his weight. "They move on. You will too."

John didn't deem that worthy of thought. Of course a _Holmes_ wouldn't care. And there it was. John squeezed his eyes shut. It wasn't fair. John had thought, briefly, that the whole sociopath thing wasn't an act. But it _was_. John knew that his friend cared. That he was capable of love. John was just so _mad_ at being left behind. John had thought, well, he didn't really know what he was thinking. He wished Sherlock had told him sooner. But would John have believed him? Would John have stayed? Probably not, John decided. They'd both needed to grow up for a relationship to work. And by the time they did...

"I wouldn't take anything Sherlock was saying to heart. You were both rather high. And he had to be in considerable pain. My brother probably didn't know what he was saying."

John ground his teeth together.

"In fact, I doubt my brother was capable of such sentiment."

John was stunned. He balled his fist. His mouth twisted to a dangerous smile as he met Mycroft's eye. "What?"

"Sherlock wasn't capable of such things as love or relationships. Whatever he said, whatever you're thinking..." Mycroft brushed imaginary lint off his shoulder as he trailed off.

John figured his expression must have been terrifying to make _Mycroft_ stop talking. "That's a load of bollix."

Mycroft looked displeased at John's crass language. "I assure you it isn't."

"He was capable of more than you know."

"My brother was a murderer with a knack for trouble. He might have had some talent noticing things compared to most other people but he wasn't anything special, really."

John snapped and punched Mycroft right in his big nose. "I know you know that's not true! Why are you doing this?!"

Hospital machines were going crazy, Mycroft was holding his nose that was dripping blood, John noted it was probably broken, and John had managed to rip out his IV. The amount of blood was rather startling. John put pressure on his arm while he waited for the staff came to take care of it.

Mycroft, of course, had to get the last word in, "Go see your daughter, John."

John wished he'd punched harder so he wouldn't have understood. He wasn't ready for the responsibility. He thought he'd have Sherlock's help. He didn't want to be a single parent. But, he couldn't sit and stare at the walls forever. Mycroft was annoying but he was right, Sherlock wouldn't want that. John frowned as doctors fluttered, what would Sherlock want?

...-...

She was sleeping, all wrapped up in a hospital blanket, snug and safe. John sighed.

"Do you want to hold her?" One of the nurses asked.

John did, surprisingly. "Shouldn't she sleep?" He asked instead. She didn't exactly have an easy time coming into the world.

"It's important to bond." The nurse said.

"Yeah," John agreed. "Yeah, let me hold her."

The nurse brought the little bundle over. "She's a good sleeper." She said as she handed John's daughter to him. "We were all a bit worried, what with what she's been though."

John was sure the nurse didn't know the half of it.

"What are you going to name her?"

The hat slipped on the baby's head and John saw brown curls. She had Mary's hair, then. John knew Mary bleached her hair even though she tried to hide it. John's eye twitched, he realized that if Mary had really wanted to hide it she could have. It was a pretend secret. Something to make her seem normal. John remembered the nurse and answered, "I don't know."

The baby chose that moment to wake up. She yawned and blinked like it was a surprise. Her eyes were blue, but John knew they could change. She wrinkled her nose and seemed to be judging her father. After a moment she decided he was boring and started gurgling.

John chuckled at her antics. Then he noticed a red ribbon tied around her wrist. "What's this?" John asked the nurse. He remembered seeing it on her earlier. But it couldn't be the same one, it didn't smell like smoke.

"Oh, she was wearing one when she came in. We figured you for one of _those_ parents."

John's lack of comprehension must have been clear on his face.

"It's a slip-knot. It protects the child if someone looks at her with an evil eye."

Her accent wasn't thick but John was just getting more confused.

"It's a superstition. You know, like how you have to greet a lone magpie to counteract sorrow?"

John had never heard of such a thing. Some of the people he'd served with were pretty superstitious but hadn't made much fuss about birds. Then again, he hadn't cared much about them so maybe he just didn't notice.

"We can take it off if you'd like."

"No." John stopped her. He remembered how weird that bird was being and how it flew away when it saw his daughter. It must have been the red knot.

"Suit yourself." The nurse said and wandered off to take care of a crying baby.

John wanted to know more about the local superstitions but that nurse clearly didn't think much of them. She was younger though and had been assigned to him simply because she spoke English well. But many of the other nurses spoke English too, John wondered if one of the older nurses might know more.

...-...

"You can't leave the hospital without naming her." Mycroft said stuffily.

John chuckled, the word worked on two levels now. He hadn't broken Mycroft's nose but it had been a close thing. Mycroft was suffering from stuffed sinuses and bruising. John figured he deserved it for saying those things.

"John, just pick a name. I can't delay the funeral forever."

That was the problem though. John didn't know what to name her. Even though he and Mary had fought about what to name the child Mary had made it very clear that she was going to have final say. But Mary wasn't here anymore. John thought Sherlock would probably come up with some good names.

"What would you name her?" John asked Mycroft, just so that he'd have something not to pick.

"Our grand-mère's name was Viola. I'm quite fond of the more traditional Violet."

John had to admit both names weren't horrible. He wasn't going to name his daughter anything that Mycroft actually liked though so he turned to his phone.

"What are you looking at?" Mycroft came around and peered over John's shoulder. "Female pirates, John? Really?!"

John quite liked the story of Ching Shih but it wasn't really something one named one's daughter. He refused to name his daughter Mary, would that name never stop coming up?! And there were a couple of women named Anne but it didn't suit his child. The name was so plain and baby Watson was extraordinary. She'd survived when John, Sherlock and Moriarty were high off their rockers on gas. She'd survived Mary's murder. She was tough. She was unique.

"Are you sure I get to keep her?"

"Yes, John. She's your daughter. I double checked personally."

Sherlock had wanted John to name his daughter after him but John couldn't bear to remember the time on the tarmac. If Moriarty hadn't chosen to show himself Sherlock would have died on that plane. It wasn't a time or conversation John wanted to be reminded of. John thought of the other name Sherlock suggested. Liealia. John pulled that name up on his phone:

 _In French the meaning of the name Liealia is:_ _ **Loyal.**_

 _People with this name have a deep inner need for quiet, and a desire to understand and analyze the world they live in, and to learn the deeper truths._

 _People with this name tend to be orderly and dedicated to building their lives on a solid foundation of order and service. They value truth, justice, and discipline, and may be quick-tempered with those who do not. Their practical nature makes them good at managing and saving money, and at building things in the material world. Because of their focus on order and practicality, they may seem overly cautious and conservative at times._

John thought of all the times Sherlock called for quiet so he could think. Then he read the second paragraph and thought of how much it sounded like him, punching Sherlock for lying to him for years.

"Well, Mummy will be pleased." Mycroft said wheezing over John's shoulder. "Middle name?"

John frowned. He wanted... but he wasn't sure... It would be petty to not at least thank the woman who carried his daughter. And Mary had been adamant about the name...

...-...

When it was time to sign the certificate Mycroft just asked, "Are you sure about this, John?"

"If it's ok with you." John smiled sheepishly, "It's not like I can go to Harry for help." John knew Mycroft wasn't going to go anywhere. Not this time.

"You won't need any help, John. My brother left everything to you."

"That's not what I meant."

Mycroft turned and looked out the window. John could have sworn he blushed when he said, "I know. It would be... good. Sherlock would have approved."

John wrote in the last name and blinked rapidly.

 _Liealia Rose Watson-Holmes_

...-...

John carried his daughter as Mycroft pushed him in the obligatory wheelchair. John heard something from one of the bushes along the path. He forced Mycroft to push him over and saw it.

It was a kitten, born probably the same day Sherlock- no, John didn't want to think about that -the same day John went to the hospital. The creature was far too young to be left on its own. It was crying piteously.

"John..." Mycroft started to warn him off.

"It'll die." John said.

"That's the way of things. It was probably the runt."

It was January so it would snow again soon. Even if someone in the hospital was feeding it the kitten wouldn't survive. A magpie landed next to the cat, squawking at it.

"Hello, Mr. Magpie." John greeted.

The bird looked at John and cocked its head before going back to terrorizing the cat.

"Shoo!" John said. The bird did, much to John's surprise.

Mycroft sighed dramatically but didn't stop John from leaning over and picking the cat up.

John was expecting the kitten to try and claw him but it just looked at him like some sort of odd specimen. John smiled at it. "Hello, there. My name's John."

The cat yowled at him, "Jaaaaawn!"

John smiled at it. "Very good."

"Oh, for..." Mycroft roughly turned the wheelchair and resumed their progress to the black car.

That was the closest John had ever heard Mycroft come to swearing. John wondered if he could get Mycroft to curse before the day was out. It was the little things, John knew, that made it so people could keep living.

* * *

End A/N: Red slip-knots are also a popular superstition in Poland. As red is said, in many cultures, to undo spells, it is very common for Polish people to attach red slip-knots to a babies stroller or clothes to protect the baby if someone looks at it with an evil eye. ( Ok, apparently links don't work on this site so go over to ao3 to see them. )

The info for Liealia's name came from here: ( Same username. ) and you can find the pronunciation here: ( GizmoTrinket )

I made a teaser playlist for the next section of the story: ( It can be found on my YouTube channel link found on my twitter gizmotrinket221 my tumblr theartone or on the other site. )

For those of you who are screaming, don't worry. Johnlock is endgame. Comments make me write faster.


	5. Two is for Joy: The Cat

A/N: Here we step away from Polish superstition and really go into the AU.

* * *

The flight back was interesting. Mycroft must have only had access to the one plane, the one Sherlock almost died in. John entered it slowly, carefully measuring his steps with his cane in hand. He found a seat and released the kitten from his jacket. The nanny was busy getting Liealia settled. John sat back and watched them load the plane.

...-...

Sherlock wasn't responding. Well, he was but he thought he was somewhere else. He was fighting Moriarty in his mind.

John heard the sirens and thanked God.

"What the hell is going on?!"

"John, don't-"

"It's not real, none of it." Sherlock hissed.

"What's he talking about?"

"Too much, too fast." Mycroft muttered.

"Sherlock."

"Emilia Ricoletti, I need to know where she was buried."

"What?"

"There's no point engaging him when he's like this." Mycroft turned to the paramedics and handed them the list.

"I don't get it, how is this relevant?"

Mycroft rolled his eyes and turned the paper over.

"He took it all?" The paramedic asked with wide eyes.

Sherlock awoke and John fought with him, he wanted another hit.

"I'm not playing this time, Sherlock! Not anymore!" John seethed. He'd seen the list. He knew what it meant. It didn't take a genius to combine Sherlock's words on the tarmac with is actions here. The cabbie seemed like a fairy tale compared to this.

"How is he awake?!" The first paramedic asked the second, she was reading the list over his shoulder.

John stormed off the plane. He opened and closed his fist but it wasn't helping. Mary went home as soon as she got word Moriarty was back. John decided to wait and talk with Sherlock. Look where that got him. Sherlock wasn't in a fit state to talk to anyone! Mary was panicking, she needed him. She needed both of them. Sherlock had promised, he'd made a vow-

"We do have slightly more pressing matters at hand than my little brother. Moriarty? Back from the dead?" Mycroft was talking into his mobile.

"Do not forget me. Do not forget me." Sherlock was singing under his breath.

John ground his teeth and cursed when one of the paramedics jostled Sherlock roughly getting him out of the plane.

"I have to go to Baker Street now. Moriarty is back." Sherlock informed the paramedic to his right.

Mycroft stopped John from getting into the ambulance with his friend. "Doctor Watson-"

...-...

"John!"

...-...

The world rushed back into focus and John looked around, confused. There was a doctor next to him, an agent and Mycroft. Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. Of course, John thought, he's below, in the cargo hold.

"Sorry." John muttered. "Must have nodded off."

Mycroft and the doctor shared a look. "Would you like something to help you relax?" The doctor asked.

"No." John's head didn't feel quite right and he didn't want to make it worse with pharmaceuticals. John went to stand up and the agent moved closer to his boss. John rolled his eyes at the man and went looking for the loo.

"...flashback. Did he have PTSD before? His file-"

"Oh, John." Mycroft interrupted the other doctor. "Feeling better?"

John rolled his eyes again. "Subtle." He snarked under his breath. He was feeling a little better after splashing some cold water on his face. Right now he was mostly embarrassed.

Mycroft had enough decency to look semi-abashed.

When John got back to his seat he saw the kitten had decided it needed to test its claws all over the leather while he was gone.

"What has that animal done?!"

John smiled wickedly when the cat dug its tiny needle like claws into the headrest and pulled itself up.

"Jaaawn!" The cat announced proudly to its audience from its perch.

"Well, aren't you a clever little thing?" John cooed.

"Mew!" The cat agreed.

Mycroft excused himself.

...-...

John's tea had been drugged. John knew this because he woke up when the plane was landing and John had been determined not to sleep. He had to pick out a name for the kitten. He'd been saying names at the cat while the cat rejected them one by one until the nanny Mycroft provided to help with Liealia brought him tea.

Now the plane was on a tarmac on British soil and John hadn't named the cat.

As people unloaded themselves and their things John hung back. He could see them unloading a casket. Mycroft was watching with his parents. Mummy Holmes slapped Mycroft on his face before crying into their father's shoulder.

John winced in sympathy.

"Ready, Doctor Watson?" The nanny asked.

"Give me a moment." John picked up the sleeping ball of fur and tucked him into his jacket. Then he walked down the steps and to where Mycroft was standing alone, staring at nothing.

"John." Mycroft greeted without looking at him.

John frowned, he wasn't sure how to go about doing this. "Well, that explained a lot." John could have smacked himself.

"Hm?" Mycroft hummed, trying to give him an out.

"I always wondered how two of the smartest most powerful men I knew were terrified of a small-"

Mycroft stopped him with a hand. "Sherlock was Mummy's favourite and it was my job to protect him. I failed."

"My job too." John sighed. "You aren't the only one who failed." The cat clawed John a little. "And, for what it's worth, I don't blame you."

This made Mycroft look even sadder. "I know, John." He finally turned and looked at John to say, "For what it's worth, I don't blame you."

John nodded and sighed. He had _tried_ to comfort Mycroft, that had to count for something.

"You'd best be getting some sleep, we have a big day tomorrow."

The funeral was tomorrow. John wished that Mycroft had kept Sherlock frozen so he'd never have to do this. It would have been better if they'd gone ahead and buried Sherlock during those weeks he was in the hospital. He'd already had to do this once. He wasn't sure he could do it again.

"You don't have to join us..."

"No. No, I... It won't be real, if I don't go. I'll be there."

Mycroft nodded and watched the sunset.

"Doctor Watson? Your car is ready. I've got Miss Watson settled-"

"Watson-Holmes." John corrected.

"Yes, sir." The nanny made a face. "We're ready when you are."

"I want a different nanny." John told Mycroft.

"I'll start looking immediately."

They stood, watching the sun until it disappeared.

"Go home, John."

"Right." The problem was that John wasn't sure where that was. "Right. I'll just..." He couldn't go back to the place he shared with Mary and 221B wasn't home without his Holmes. "Right."

"You're welcome to stay with me, until you can find-"

"No. Thanks, but no." John didn't want to find a new place. He didn't have it in him to go through all that again.

"The gun, Doctor Watson." Mycroft held out his hand.

John pulled it out of his coat pocket and handed it over without complaint.

"See you tomorrow, John."

...-...

The car pulled up to 221B and the cat poked his head out of John's jacket. "Meow!" The kitten started clawing at John to get out of the vehicle.

"Hold on! Ouch! Can you just wait one damn second?"

The cat and the nanny shot John a look about his language. But Liealia didn't seem to mind and John figured he had plenty of time to get his mouth under control before she could understand him.

Not wanting the kitten to get loose and lost John held onto him through his struggles. John made it all the way to the door before he realized he had no idea what to do. He wanted to open it with his key but if felt wrong. John raised his hand to knock before realizing no one was expecting him. It wasn't that late, John figured Mrs. Hudson would still be up and by the smell of it she hadn't taken any herbal soothers yet. John nodded to himself, it wouldn't do to alarm her and since Sherlock was gone... John swallowed; maybe she wouldn't want to rent to him.

The nanny had gotten Liealia out of Mycroft's car and the two were approaching.

John pressed the buzzer for Mrs. Hudson's flat.

Either she was cleaning near the door or Mycroft warned her because he'd barely lifted his finger off before the door flew open. "Oh, John!" Mrs. Hudson sobbed, wrapping him in a hug.

"I know." John said and patted her back.

"Mew!" The cat finally wriggled free and bolted upstairs.

"Oh!" Mrs. Hudson turned to look.

"Um..." John didn't really know how to approach the questions he needed to ask. Could he still stay here? Was she ok with cats? The baby?

Mrs. Hudson read his face. "Come in, come in. And don't you leave this time, young man!"

John sighed in relief, picked up his daughter and the diaper bag and kindly told the nanny to piss off before shutting the door in her face. There was no way he was allowing a woman who couldn't recognize Sherlock's importance in Liealia's well being- existence -into his flat. He turned and looked at the stairs. They seemed insurmountable.

"Tea, dear?"

"Please, Mrs. Hudson."

John stayed the night in his landlady's spare room. She was happy to have the company and was a big help with Liealia. Not once did she tell John she wasn't his housekeeper and John was both relieved and saddened by this change.

...-...

Their morning was solemn. Mrs. Hudson made a full English breakfast for both of them but the only one with an appetite was Liea.

"You could stay here, during. No one would blame you, what with the baby and all." Mrs. Hudson said.

"Yeah." John agreed. He could, but he knew he wouldn't.

John's mobile rang. Mycroft was calling to ask about Liea. John didn't want to leave her with a stranger so he told Mycroft to hold off on sending a new nanny over. He had asked if John needed a suit but John still had the suit he proposed in and figured it would be a waste to get a new one for just the one occasion. Mycroft reminded John Mary would need some sort of service as well and John hung up on him. Mycroft sent over some warm, appropriate, black clothing for Liea. John was tempted to burn it, even more so when it proved difficult to get on the squirmy infant, but knew better. Mycroft was trying, John could appreciate that.

With the child dressed John started up the stairs. Mycroft said he'd moved all of John's things over. John wondered how he'd discerned John would come back here before deciding it'd be better not to know. The doors to 221B's kitchen was open and John saw someone moving around up there. He went to confront Mycroft's minion. John didn't want the stranger going through Sherlock's things. "Hey! What are you..."

"Oh, hello, John." Sherlock greeted when John trailed off. "Did you see the magpies? Two of them are nesting on the window ledge!"

John's leg collapsed and he fell.

John scrambled backwards away from the apparition. It couldn't be Sherlock, it _couldn't_. That bastard wouldn't let John think he died twice. He wouldn't do that!

Who did John think he was kidding? Of course he would. The arsehole probably thought it was fine because he showed himself this time. "W-What the fuck, Sherlock?!" John's voice wavered, completely ruining the outrage he was going for.

"Yes." Sherlock spun around. "It's not ideal, I'll admit." When John didn't say anything Sherlock continued, "Although it beats being dead."

"I'll beat you, you cock!" John was trying to scramble to his feet.

Sherlock stepped away warily, "Now, John. Even you can't-"

"Can't, what? Think you died in my arms?!" John gave up trying to get to his feet and settled for not breaking down. "Can't think that you could come back from being impaled on rebar? I should just assume you're immune to exsanguination?!" John's voice lowered in a harsh mockery of Sherlock's baritone, "I would never tell you I love you. It was a clue. It's not _my fAULT_ YOU'RE TOO DIM WITTED-"

"John, calm down. You're shouting."

John continued as if Sherlock hadn't said anything, his breathing becoming more rapid with each word. "-as ever you see but don't observe. Stupid little John Watson, believing _you_ of all people were capable-"

"John?" Mrs. Hudson called from below, "Are you alright?"

"Oh, God!"

"You're hyperventilating. Calm down."

John couldn't find the breath to tell Sherlock how stupid that was. As if John could just will himself out of a panic attack. "Oh," John put his head between his knees and wrapped his arms around the hole in his chest. "God."

There was a light pressure on John's leg and he scrambled away from it. He fell into the landing, panting and expecting Sherlock to be looming over him.

But Sherlock was nowhere to be seen. There was only the cat. "Mew?" It asked, tentatively.

John looked up and down the stairs, trying to find where Sherlock ran off to. Maybe he was still in the flat. "Come out here!"

"John, really." Mrs. Hudson thundered up the stairs. "Oh, goodness! Did you fall? Are you alright?"

John ignored Mrs. Hudson and used the railing to pull himself upright. "Sherlock. He's in there."

Mrs. Hudson looked at John oddly before going into the flat. "Sherlock?" She called as soon as she left John's line of sight. There were the sounds of doors opening, floorboards creaking and shoes shuffling but no answering voice.

"There's no one there, John." She said when she returned.

John's leg tried to buckle again, he held fast to the railing to stay upright.

Mrs. Hudson took one look at him and turned back into the flat. She came back with his cane. "There are a couple of magpies making a nest outside the window. You must have seen one of them fly off." There was pity in her eyes. "He's really gone this time. He wouldn't do this to you twice."

John gripped his crutch so hard it hurt his hand. He hadn't entered far enough to see the windows, he'd not had the angle from the kitchen. There was no way for an imaginary Sherlock to tell him about the birds.

"Come now, you have to get ready." Mrs. Hudson put her arm on the small of John's back and led him up the stairs. "I know the other room would have been more convenient but I just couldn't..."

"Yes, this is better. Thanks Mrs. Hudson." John didn't feel comfortable taking Sherlock's room. Emptying his closet, ruining his sock index, sleeping in his bed. "Oh, God." The panic was coming back. John closed his eyes and willed it away. Not in front of Mrs. Hudson.

The cat gave him an "I told you so" look when John managed to get his eyes open.

John had to be firm to get Mrs. Hudson to leave him to change. She was worried about the cane and probably knew everything about his mental health from Mycroft. She'd most likely been tasked with keeping an eye on him. John wondered, briefly, if Mycroft had bugged the flat.

"You missed a button."

John jumped and turned around. Sherlock was sitting on the floor staring at him. "Jesus Christ!"

"Not quite." Sherlock said with a tight smile.

"Har, har." John turned his back and fixed his button. When he turned around the ghost was still there.

"Really, John, a ghost?"

"A demon, then?"

Sherlock looked hurt.

"Sorry." John didn't know why he was apologizing to his imagination.

"It's the best you can do with such a limited-" Sherlock cut himself off this time. "Never mind. But, I'm real."

"Real to me? Or real to everyone?"

"Both, really. Just in different ways."

"I don't have time for your stupid riddles. I have to go to your funeral." John opened the door and started down the stairs.

"Pick up some catnip on your way home."

"What?" John turned back but only saw the kitten slinking down the stairs. "Right," John said to himself. "Right." John didn't have time to worry about whether he was losing his mind or not. He had a funeral to get to, a funeral to plan and, from the sounds emanating from downstairs, a baby to attend to.

* * *

End A/N: I've written the next chapter and will upload it Sunday-ish. I've released a playlist for it which can be found here: (youTube won't link, go to my AO3 account, Tumblr: TheArtOne or Twitter: GizmoTrinket221 for the link) and is probably better listened to before reading as I can't time anything properly. :P


	6. Two is for Joy: The Spiral

A/N: You may be noticing a subtle writing style change. I wrote the first chapter of part one a year ago and am trying to transition to my current style because that old one is a pain in the arse. If anyone wants to give me a hand by being a beta or britpicker lemme know. :)

* * *

"It was a beautiful service." Mrs. Hudson said when they returned to Baker Street.

"Hm." John just hummed in agreement. He had missed most of it. Liealia was uncomfortable in her outfit and made that known. John had spent most of the service outside trying to quiet her.

"Should we have gone to the wake?" Mrs. Hudson wrung her hands fretfully.

"If you want to you can go. I need to change Liea. Do some shopping too. I haven't got any cat food or toys or anything." John was NOT getting any catnip, he decided while tending to his daughter that the cat, with its slightly curly black fluffy fur was making him think of Sherlock. When Sherlock died the first time John had sat and stared at the empty chair, just sitting and imagining Sherlock reading, playing or typing away on John's laptop. It hadn't been healthy and had gotten to the point that John was talking to Sherlock out loud. He moved out to stop the habit and he was not going to fall back into that state. Not with a daughter to look after.

"John?"

"Sorry, what?"

"Do you want some tea? Biscuits?"

John glanced up the stairs and pondered; would it be so bad to put it off? He didn't know how he'd handle it if the apparition was still there. But Mrs. Hudson was looking at him like she worried about his sanity and even though he wanted to go to bed and never get up he couldn't have her seeing it. "No. Thanks, but I should get everything settled. I didn't even look at everything Mycroft brought." John tried to twist his mouth into a smile, "Well, everything Mycroft's employees brought."

"Ok, dear." Mrs. Hudson patted his arm. "I didn't get a chance to clean out the refrigerator, just so you're warned. I'll stop by the shop on my way back. Anything in particular you need?"

"Uh..." John thought but he didn't know. "You have a mobile, I'll text?" He raised the end of the sentence in question.

"That old thing!" Mrs. Hudson hated trying to figure out the texting on her phone. She offered instead, "How about I take care of the meals, just for this week? Until you get settled, is all. I'm not your housekeeper."

John smiled at her knowingly. "Of course." He shut the door behind her and started for the baby. He took Liea into Mrs. Hudson's flat, as it was safest to feed her there until they got Sherlock's experiments cleaned up, before realizing he left the diaper bag in the foyer. Since Liealia was safely ensconced in a car seat John nipped back to grab it. He was feeling better now that Mrs. Hudson was acting more normally.

"He saw him, was convinced it was Sherlock. I don't know if... Yes, well. It sounds better than _that_. No, I don't think it was a flash back. Of course I'll keep an eye-"

John walked away from the door. Hearing Mrs. Hudson discuss his melt down with Mycroft made him shudder. That couldn't happen again. Liea screamed and John jumped as he ran to her.

...-...

When Mrs. Hudson returned her eyes were red and puffy and she smelled strongly of alcohol. John could really go for a drink right now, he wondered if Sherlock had any booze anywhere. John hadn't managed to make it upstairs the entire time Mrs. Hudson was gone. He'd used the excuse that Liealia was fussy and needed a bath. Surely the sink and tub upstairs were filthy. But Mrs. Hudson was back now looking like she needed rest and John couldn't hide down here forever.

John climbed the steps slowly, a cane in one hand and a baby carrier in the other. He set his child down to open the door.

"Oh, good. You're back. I'm hungry. Did you get the catnip?"

John refused to answer. He figured if he ignored it it'd go away. John picked up his daughter and went into the living room. The flat really did need a thorough cleaning. John crossed the room and peered out at the magpies. They cocked their heads and watched him. "I suppose since there's two of you I don't have to greet you. You're supposed to be for joy or something."

One of the magpies squawked at him.

"If you really were good luck I wouldn't be imagining my dead best friend." John frowned; he realized hallucinating was more accurate. "I'm surprised the cat hasn't been terrorizing you." John spun around. "Where is the cat anyway?"

The kitten was outside, peering into the carrier at Liea.

Liea reached for the cat and the cat petted himself on her. She gurgled happily. The kitten licked her and she laughed.

John was momentarily stunned; he'd never heard her laugh before. She was in an equal state having never emitted so much as a giggle. He decided to intervene before the cat decided his daughter tasted good and tried to bite her. He carried her inside the flat and looked around for a safe place to set her down. The table was covered in what looked like a drug lab, the couch wouldn't be sturdy enough if the cat climbed up, the coffee table was covered in case files, the other table had three laptops on it as well as stacks of books and magazines. John wedged her in his chair and started piling the clutter into some boxes John was sure were left by Mycroft's people.

The sun set and John realized his daughter didn't have a cot here. Mrs. Hudson had one but John was positive the two of them couldn't get it up the stairs safely. Not with his leg and her hip. When he'd gone upstairs he hadn't seen one in his room. Surely Mycroft wouldn't have overlooked something so important.

There was only one room he hadn't been in.

John looked down the hallway. It seemed to stretch to infinity. The door was in shadow and John swallowed. He felt his eyes pricking. He couldn't do it. Not even for his daughter. The loo was hard enough. He ground his teeth, he was brave, he could... But he couldn't. He couldn't go in there. If Everything of Sherlock's had been boxed up and the room transformed into a nursery he'd vomit. If it was exactly as Sherlock left it, untouched by Mycroft and his men it would be worse.

There was an article he'd read about how Finnish babies slept in boxes. It was supposed to be safer than a cot. John pulled up the article on BBC's website and nodded. Not nessacerly safer but more than safe enough. It would do.

Sherlock had ignored John while he cleaned, preferring to take a nap in a sunbeam on the couch rather than help.

Since he was imaginary John figured he couldn't yell at him about it.

"Hungry." Sherlock said as he stretched.

"So? Make yourself something."

Sherlock gave John a flat look. "And how, exactly, am I supposed to do that?"

"You'll figure it out." John said. He was tired, his leg ached and he wanted a nice soak in the bath before bed.

"I'll just have whatever you're having."

John ignored him.

"Aren't you going to eat?"

John picked up the box containing his daughter and carried it to the bathroom.

"John? You don't skip meals. Even when we were on cases..."

John shut the door in Sherlock's face.

The kitten yowled. "Jawwwn. Jaaaawn!"

"Damnit." John had forgotten about the stupid cat. He hadn't set up a litter box, not that it would have known what that was. There was probably a surprise waiting for him in one of his shoes. He hadn't left any food out for it either.

"JAAAWWWWN!" The kitten started scratching at the door.

John's head fell forward in exasperation and he juggled the box and his cane as he went back into the hall.

"Oh, good. You'll eat now?"

"No, I've got to feed the cat."

Sherlock rolled his eyes so loudly John could hear it down the hall with his back turned.

There was a can of tuna that wasn't past the expiry date. John opened it and emptied it onto a clean looking plate from the cupboard. Normally he'd wash any dishes before he used them but he was tired and Sherlock's ghost didn't warn him off. In fact, he was looking at the tuna with bright eyes.

"Don't experiment on it, it's for the cat."

"Yoo, hoo!" Mrs. Hudson knocked on the door. John nearly dropped the plate in surprise. He hadn't heard her coming up the stairs. He wondered how long she'd been standing there.

"That kitten is a little cutie, isn't he? What's his name?"

"Uh..." John couldn't see the kitten so he figured it was on the other side of the table. Suddenly John was struck with inspiration. It seemed to be impossible for him to ignore the apparition and John might look a bit crazy talking to a cat but he'd look insane talking to someone who was dead. "Sherlock."

"Oh." Mrs. Hudson eyed the cat with trepidation.

"It's the eyes." John said. It was true that the kitten seemed to have Sherlock's exact eyes right down to the little spot in the right.

That seemed to appease the landlady. "Yes, you're quite right. That's odd, isn't it?" When John didn't bother to answer she invited him down to dinner. "Sorry it's so late, dear. I feel asleep. It was just supposed to be a short nap but..."

John knew what happened. One too many herbal soothers. "It's fine. I've already eaten."

"John," Sherlock looked disappointed in him, "you need to eat something."

Mrs. Hudson looked down sadly. "I'm sorry it was so late. Maybe I can bring some leftovers up?"

The guilt trip worked. "Well, maybe a little bit. I cleaned off the table in the living room so I've got a fit place to eat. Although I haven't even looked in the fridge yet."

"Oh, that's alright." She said perkily. "Sherlock always left a shelf safe for me. I'm sure that was your doing. I'm glad for it." She spun and bounded down the stairs.

John sighed and set the tuna on the floor. Where ever the cat was it would find it. The baby started crying and John groaned. The sink was filled with mouldy dishes so John took her downstairs to make a bottle. He knew that Mrs. Hudson would force him to stay but at least this way he could put off opening the fridge. Somehow it seemed wrong to mess with Sherlock's experiments. There wouldn't be any others to take their place.

John pushed the food around on his plate until it was polite to leave. He didn't get his bath as he remembered that his leg pain wasn't in his head this time when he undressed and thought it might not be best to get the stitches wet as he hadn't cleaned the tub thoroughly before filling it. The idea of standing under water made his throat close up and he just gave himself a sponge bath. He figured it was just the idea of a slip and fall and didn't look at the fear too closely.

...-...

Sherlock was in the kitchen in the morning. John greeted him. Sherlock informed him they had a case and ran off. No matter how hard John tried he couldn't catch him. Then Sherlock was standing at the edge of a cliff. "Did you know that it's not the fall that kills you? It's the landing." Then he jumped.

John cried out and looked over the edge.

Sherlock was being carried away by magpies.

"It's just magic, John!"

John was furious. Once the birds brought Sherlock back John started punching him. This time he didn't stop. He just kept on until his knuckles were split and his clothes were ruined. There was a rusty metal pipe on the ground and John picked it up.

"No! Please, I'm sorry."

"Not yet, but you will be. You did this to me. You left and I _died_." John raised the pipe and brought it down enjoying the crunch of ribs before bringing it back up.

"I love you."

"Shut up." John brought it down on Sherlock's head this time.

The birds circled and started feasting.

...-...

John woke up screaming. Tears ran down his face. He'd fallen asleep on the couch, the television showing static not covering Liealia's cries. She was terrified. He'd scared her. He'd scarred her. He'd punched Sherlock. He'd put him in a headlock. He beat him. Sherlock had a broken rib. John never did find out if it was broken in the fall or when John was over his shoulder. He couldn't do this. It wasn't right. He wasn't... good. He wasn't the moral compass. He wasn't the heart. He was a cancer.

John tried to stand up to flee the dark, to get to a light switch but his leg wouldn't let him. Liealia screamed. He couldn't do this. He couldn't. Everyone he cared about died. He couldn't do that to her.

"John? What's going on?"

"Shut up. Shut up! You aren't real!" John panted, trying to pull in the breath that would calm him but only making the feeling in his chest worse.

Sherlock stood and hit a button on a CD player.

It was the waltz Sherlock had written for John's wedding.

John sobbed.

Sherlock hit next. It was a violin heavy cover of Bittersweet Symphony. John could only take so much classical music and Sherlock only so much modern. It was Sherlock's compromise.

John choked on a laugh at the irony of it all.

"It'll be ok, John."

John shook his head and let the music down out the crying.

Before the song was over Mrs. Hudson came. John was honestly surprised it took her so long. She didn't say anything, she barely looked at John and the glances she sent were neither pitying nor judgemental. She calmed Liea and turned the stereo off when the song was over.

Sherlock just stood to the side and watched as John pulled himself up, turned off the TV and headed upstairs, leaning heavily on his cane.

Mrs. Hudson took Liealia downstairs without saying a word.

The magpies watched from their roost and shook their heads.

Sherlock hissed at them.

...-...

John opened the fridge, just this one chore. He could do just this one.

Mycroft had beaten him to it; the refrigerator was empty.

...-...

"You need a nanny."

"No."

"You need a job."

"God, no."

"You need to go shopping."

"Shut up, Mycroft."

Sherlock ranted at his brother. He went so far as to throw one of his beakers at him. It fell short but John appreciated it all the same.

"When was the last time you ate?"

John didn't answer.

"When was the last time you showered?"

"Leave me alone."

"You need to make arrangements for Mrs. Watson-"

"SHE WASN'T MY WIFE! SHE DIDN'T EXIST! GO DO SOMETHING USEFUL AND FIND HER REAL FAMILY. THE ONE THAT KNOWS WHAT AGRA STANDS FOR! LET THEM DO IT!"

Mycroft winced at John's tirade. "John, I'm becoming concerned-"

"Don't tell me you _care_. I know how you abhor sentiment. Besides, everyone who cares about me dies. Do you have a death wish?"

Mycroft sighed heavily. "You've been drinking."

"FUCK. OFF. MYCROFT!" John threw one of Sherlock's beakers and it shattered next to the smarmy git's head.

"There will be a home visit. You know this. You haven't cleaned since the first day. This isn't healthy, for you or your daughter. Liealia is a Holmes-"

"Then take her!"

"John." Mycroft stood and looked down his nose at the doctor. "Don't think that I won't if I have to."

John threw one of the empty bottles of Scotch that sat on the counter.

Mycroft was forced to dodge and he stepped out onto the landing in hopes that he'd be safe from John's temper there.

The cat ran and leaped. Sherlock snagged his tiny claws in Mycroft's expensive trousers. When it became clear that he was stuck and would not be able to climb up further the cat flexed, digging into flesh before he sunk his needle-like teeth into Mycroft's thigh.

Mycroft endured many scratches before he managed to loosen the cat's death grip on his leg and, to John's dismay, threw Sherlock into the flat.

Sherlock spun in midair and transformed into a human. A human Sherlock. John was stunned.

Mycroft brushed his suit, getting tiny dark blood spots from his hands on it. "I'll be back, Doctor Watson." He didn't seem to notice the miracle before his eyes. He stormed down the stairs.

John blinked, mouth hanging open.

"Surprise?" Sherlock smiled awkwardly.

Outside the magpies cackled.

* * *

End A/N: The BBC article I referenced can be found here: (BBC Magazine link failure, do a google search for more info)

Teaser playlist for chapter 3 can be found here: (youtube link failure, check my twitter: gizmotrinket221 or Tumblr: TheArtOne) if you're into that sort of thing.


	7. Two is for Joy: The Sun

A/N: You are my sunshine, my only sunshine...

* * *

John gasped. This was it, he'd cracked. He'd lost his mind. John looked around the flat seeing only empty bottles and the detritus of a depressed man. "How long?" John wasn't sure what he was asking. How long have I been insane? How long have I been drinking like this? How long do I have before I end up like my sister? He'd already basically accomplished the last one. Both he and the flat reeked and his daughter was abandoned to the neighbours. He was worse than his sister. At least she cared Clara was gone.

"You care, John. That's the problem."

"Yeah, look where that got you." John snapped.

"Being a cat isn't all that bad." Sherlock shrugged. "At least Mrs. Hudson doesn't nag at me to clean anymore."

Knowing he was talking to a cat and not a person helped John say what he normally wouldn't, "How do I recover from this?"

"Start by throwing out the booze," Sherlock wrinkled his nose, "and then maybe shower."

John nodded slowly. Even doing that seemed difficult.

"Just pull out a chair and put the bin next to the table. I can take care of the bottles. Go take a bath, John."

John did as Sherlock told him. The noise from the shower made him wince but water filling the tub wasn't as bad. John's hands shook as he removed his stitches but he diligently ignored it and soldiered on. Luckily the wound on his shoulder didn't require more than a bandage. John looked in the mirror; it had healed but the joint was stiff.

When John got out of the bathroom the table was clean, only the microscope left out. "Why did Mrs. Hudson throw out all the beakers and slides?"

"They were disgusting, John. I threw them out. It's not like I have thumbs anymore anyway. Now, open the cabinet where the rest of it is and throw it away."

It seemed like a waste but John really didn't want to have a conversation with Mrs. Hudson or Mycroft or anyone about why he was gifting them alcohol. They'd want to talk to him about it. He knew, because he'd done it to his sister. Suddenly he felt bad for her. He watched amber liquid slosh in bottles and wondered how to make it up to her.

"Good, John. Very good." Sherlock purred proudly. "Now, do you want to eat something?"

John thought about it. He didn't know when he last ate. He didn't feel hungry but he wasn't sure he knew how hungry felt anymore.

"Split a can of tuna with me."

"No, that's ok." John opened a can for the cat anyway. There were some apples in a bowl, Mrs. Hudson probably left them there to tempt him, they weren't too firm but they weren't soft either so John bit into one.

It was slightly disgusting. The crunch-scrape on his teeth and the juices flooding his mouth, the cloying sweetness instead of bitter sawdust taste coating his taste buds was nearly overwhelming.

"Take it slow."

John didn't want to take it slow, he was ravenous. But, he knew how easy it would be to make himself sick so he ate a bite for every two Sherlock took of the cat's tuna. John managed to eat half the apple before it was too much. Sherlock was pleased with his small accomplishment and John was disheartened with how low he'd sunk.

"Don't think like that. Everyone falls sometimes and everyone has a different way of grieving. You grieved for your career when you were shot the first time. The second time was just worse."

"I lost more."

Sherlock nodded. "Best friend and your wife."

"More like my life and my wife."

Sherlock looked at him oddly.

John shook his head. "Never mind." After a moment he asked, "What do I do now?"

"Now, you take a break. Don't overwhelm yourself."

John nodded, that was wise. The dishes stunk in the sink but just the thought of running water over them, his hands, filling the sink made him slightly ill. "I should see my daughter."

"Do you want to?"

John didn't know the answer to that. He was clean, shaved and had eaten. But he'd have to go downstairs and he wasn't positive he was completely sober. Mrs. Hudson was down there; Mycroft as well for all John knew. What John really wanted was a good night's sleep. He hadn't had one in ages. He figured his bed sheets were filthy and just walking up the stairs would take more energy than he had.

"Sleep in my bed."

"No, the couch is fine." John lied. The couch wasn't fine. The other times he'd fallen asleep there he'd had the worst nightmares. The ones he was terrified of; the ones where he killed Sherlock.

"John." Sherlock always knew when he was fibbing. But instead of nagging he said gently, "It's ok. I want you to sleep there. Always have, really."

John's throat became scratchy and eyes watered. His allergies were acting up; he needed to dust. John choked a laugh at his denial, so obvious even to him.

Sherlock's hand rested on John's knee. It felt like a paw. "Please?"

Standing with only a small waver John scooped the cat into his arms. "Alright. But only if you sleep with me."

"Of course."

John marched to the door. He pursed his lips and his hand shook when it reached the knob. The door opened soundlessly. John was hoping it was locked. Sherlock jumped out of his arms and leapt onto the bed. He patted the space next to him.

The room was exactly as it was before, although there was cat fur and a bit more dust.

It smelled like cat.

John wasn't sure what he was expecting, maybe Sherlock's expensive cologne or that smell that came when he was excited after they'd just caught the criminal. Whatever it was that made Sherlock so Sherlock-y that John didn't realize he missed so much.

He fell on the bed.

It still smelled like Sherlock. Just a bit.

John wrapped his arms around one of the pillows and closed his eyes. The cat curled up between his shoulder blades, telling John he was safe, loved and would be ok.

They both fell asleep.

...-...

"Where am I?" John looked around. It looked like the place in Brixton from A Study in Pink only it was clean and painted.

"My mind palace."

"Huh."

"Do you not like it?"

"No, no!" John placated truthfully. "It's just not what I was expecting."

"What were you expecting?"

"I don't know, something a little more grand?"

Sherlock snorted.

"I always wanted to visit your mind palace," John said. "I wish I knew if this was real."

"Of course it is!"

"No, I mean, I wish I knew if this was how it really was or if I'm just making this up." John frowned. "It's a dream, isn't it?"

"Just because you're asleep doesn't mean this isn't real." Sherlock took John's hand. "C'mon, you should meet Redbeard." Sherlock started pulling John down a hall that looked like the ones in the school John searched through before shooting the cabbie.

"Is this-?"

"Yes." Sherlock turned and smiled. "I had to remodel everything after I met you."

They ran hand in hand, this time with no cuffs forcing them to, until they ran into an excited Irish Setter.

"Oh, he's lovely." John said, kneeling down. He'd always wanted a dog. "May I?" John asked before reaching out to pet.

Sherlock dove face first to the animal and let him lick his face while he played with his ears. When John asked his question Sherlock turned and pulled John over so they all ended up in a pile.

John giggled as the dog licked his face. He opened his eyes when the assault stopped and met Sherlock's gaze. "I miss you."

"I'm right here."

The dog licked the tears as they fell from John's eyes.

...-...

John had been about to deny it. That Sherlock wasn't here. He just had his memory, a cat and a mental breakdown but the kitten woke him. The cat was licking the tears from his eyes with his rough scratchy tongue.

"Damnit, Sherlock." John shoved the cat off.

The cat hissed at him before walking out the door.

As John listened the cat entered the bathroom and jumped...

"Huh." John scratched his head. "Well, that answers that question." John went into the loo when it sounded like the cat was done. The kitten was too small to flush yet and John realized just how out of it he must have been to never notice his cat's talent. "Who trained you to do that, I wonder?"

John was rather surprised that the cat didn't answer. He just swanned off, probably to go beg some breakfast from Mrs. Hudson. John looked at himself in the mirror; there were bags under his slightly puffy eyes. John splashed some cold water on his face and decided to follow the cat. He wanted to see his daughter.

...-...

Dealing with Mrs. Hudson wasn't easy but it was worth it to see Liealia. They were both overly pleased to see him and once again John felt ashamed. The cat seemed unaware of the tension in the room much like his human counterpart would have been. John decided to take a page out of his book and ignore it as well.

Liea's eyes were getting darker and John wondered if they'd be like his when they were done changing. It hadn't been long but his daughter had grown so much John felt sad for the missing time and resolved to be present in her life from here on out.

Of course, that vow was immediately tested. He greatly enjoyed his time with his daughter but tired easily. Mycroft, it turned out, had not gotten a cot. He'd only had his men help Mrs. Hudson. John didn't have the energy to go to the shop and Mrs. Hudson found the idea of Little Miss Watson-Holmes sleeping in a box abhorrent.

John had two choices, stay down here under the watchful eye of his landlady or go back upstairs and get a nap. As much as John wanted a rest John stayed with his daughter.

...-...

Mrs. Hudson made him make the trip back upstairs after lunch and while Liea sat in the car seat they both tackled cleaning the flat. John scooped up all the shattered glass, feeling very guilty after seeing the cat jumping over it. Mrs. Hudson did the dishes. The mould had eaten through some of the plates and she binned them. John added dishes to the list of things to buy.

John found he could do all his shopping online and requested delivery while Mrs. Hudson did the hoovering. She wanted to dust but John wasn't ready yet. Sherlock loved dust. Even as a cat he'd just sit in a sunbeam and watch motes float, mesmerized by their dance.

After Sherlock's death, both times, John thought he'd never be happy again. And John wasn't happy, not yet, but he felt like he could get there... given enough time with his little family.

At the end of the day the laundry still wasn't done. Mrs. Hudson took the infant downstairs and as much as John wanted to follow he knew one more night away from Liea wouldn't do any harm. And he _really_ wanted to sleep in Sherlock's bed again. It was obvious why, it was the only place he hadn't had nightmares. And as he climbed into it he felt like he was crossing a bit of a line but the cat followed, curled up in the small of John's back this time, buried under the covers purring and John fell asleep easily.

...-...

"Sorry I wasn't around much today."

"That's ok." John said to dream Sherlock. He meant it too, it was a sign he was getting better.

"It takes a lot of magic to pull you into my mind palace. I don't think I'm supposed to but-"

"Sorry, what? Magic?"

"Yes. The enchanter, or wizard, or warlock or whatever uses magic to bind me to the cat. I figured out how to manipulate it so you can join me when you sleep." Sherlock was clearly very proud of himself.

John had seen that expression before and although he hadn't done it in an age he exclaimed, "That's brilliant," just how Sherlock liked.

Sherlock lit up so much he nearly glowed.

It made John's chest hurt.

Sherlock took them out to a garden, where he started monologuing on how to keep various poisonous plants, and John watched as the sun glistened off slightly frazzled curls, wide bright eyes and elegant long fingered hands.

And John couldn't take it anymore. "I love you."

Sherlock stuttered and blinked rapidly before asking, "What?"

John swallowed thickly, "I'm sorry I couldn't say it before. I thought by saying it back you'd die for sure. I-"

"Shut up!"

It was John's turn to sputter.

"John, listen. I don't know how this is going to happen, but you have to believe me, I'll come back to you. I made a vow and if two deadly falls couldn't keep me from you a spell sure as Hell isn't."

"What are you saying?"

"Stay at 221B, I'll find you."

Sherlock dissolved.

...-...

John sat up, panting. He looked around wildly. The cat was gone. John ran through the flat but the kitten was nowhere to be seen.

With a frown John slowly approached the window, looking to see if the birds were there.

It was insane. The fact that he was even thinking that his dream... John shook his head. He couldn't risk jinxing it.

There was only one bird in the nest.

"Hello, Mr. Magpie."

It nodded.

"I don't know if you can hear me, or understand me, or, well, I don't understand anything, really. But if you can..." John swallowed and took a steadying breath to curtail his rambling. "I would like Sherlock back. Please."

The bird blinked.

"Please? I don't know if you're able to..." John ran his hands through his hair. What was he doing?

The second bird returned to the nest and they chattered to each other. The sun rose above the buildings and caught John in the eyes. Whatever spell he'd been caught in was broken. John could feel it. He walked away from the window and turned on the telly.

There was a re-run of an odd American show on called 2 Broke Girls. It was stupid and offensive and John secretly liked it. But that may have had more to do with the one girl's breasts and the other girl's legs in the uniforms than anything else. He'd seen this one already. It was amusing enough not to change the channel so he settled in. He'd watch this until Mrs. Hudson's flat started smelling like breakfast then he'd go down.

The brunette character, Max, let in a stray cat she thought could talk. The meows sounded nothing like what Max translated them as and it reminded John of cat Sherlock. He smiled into his fist and chuckled through some jokes.

Then the upstairs neighbour on the show, Sophie, came in. "In Poland, if you die outside, you're reincarnated as a cat..."

The joke continued but John didn't hear the rest of it. After the rushing in his ears stopped and the world came back into focus he leapt from the couch and flew down the stairs, his cane completely forgotten.

...-...

John fell into his chair with his face covered completely with his hands. The cat was gone. Sherlock was _gone_. He and Mrs. Hudson had looked everywhere: in every room, under every bed, even in 221C and anywhere else John thought a little cat could squeeze itself into. John's chest hurt almost as much as his leg. He never did make it to physical therapy and even though the hole was healed the muscle wasn't.

It could have been a coincidence, but Sherlock always said the universe is rarely so lazy.

When John pulled his hand away from his face it wasn't damp. Sherlock said he'd come back, that he'd find a way to 221B, all John had to do was sit and wait. He could do that. He was good at waiting for Sherlock. Well, maybe more practiced than anything else. But that was ok, he knew Sherlock was alive...-ish, out there, somewhere, and that made everything alright.

Even if it took years for Sherlock to return again it wouldn't be the same as last time. John turned his face into the setting sun and smiled as it warmed his cheeks.

Everything would be ok.

So, while he watched the magpies bicker John figured two might not be joy, necessarily, but after how he felt in the past this was pretty damn good.

* * *

End A/N: "2 Broke Girls and the Kitty Kitty Spank Spank" - Chapter 1 of Part three teaser playlist here: (YouTube link can be found on my Tumblr: TheArtOne)

Next update will be Sunday :)


	8. Three for a Girl: The Parting Shot

You may have noticed the chapters have story names in front of them... We're already on the third of ten.

Story Summary: John waits for Sherlock to return. Turns out he's not very patient.

AKA: John gets into heaps of trouble.

A/N: Well, the second story was a bit shorter than I expected. I wanted to put part this story arc there but it just flowed better this way.

* * *

John understood why Sherlock hated the bureaucracy at the Yard. John used to think the police did their best; that no one was as brilliant as his friend and Sherlock was mostly unreasonable and completely unbearable when the yarders didn't understand. It was a bit not good when Sherlock called them all idiots. John knew that it'd be more so for him but he couldn't help it, "You're all bloody blind!" He chuckled a little at his audacity but continued, "God! I don't know how Sherlock did it, I really don't."

"John, mate-" Lestrade started to warn John off but was interrupted.

"He's dead and you're trying to take his place. If anyone's pathetic it's you." Donovan sneered.

John's eyes flashed and the temperature in the room lowered. "I was saying, Sherlock figured it out and I'm not going to let an innocent man go to jail for nothing."

Lestrade sighed, "Yes, you've said. But he confessed! He's been sentenced!"

John caught himself before he raised his hand to wave the objection away like Sherlock would have. John shuffled on his cane instead. "He's in love with the real killer." John took the cane with him whenever he left the house. He didn't need it anymore, per se. But it came in handy whenever his leg randomly decided to collapse.

"Who's that, then?" Lestrade asked.

"The brother."

Donovan rolled her eyes. "This is ridiculous. I know everyone grieves differently but we've indulged you long enough."

"Think," John quickly decided to add a few words before he sounded exactly like Sherlock, "about it!" John could have smacked himself; that didn't help. He continued anyway, "Who benefited most from Connie's death? Who actually hated her? Motivation!"

"Well, yeah, we thought of that. We're not morons." Lestrade said sardonically.

John just barely managed not to say: could have fooled me. That would have been too far. He took a breath. "Yes, but what you don't know is that Raoul was in love with-"

"Was?"

"Well, I seriously doubt he is now. Time in prison with no visitors tends to sour such senti- I mean, notions."

"Apparently death doesn't," Donovan muttered loud enough for the whole room to hear. "At least not the second time."

Everyone froze.

"In the spirit of equality I should remind you of what I did to your old superintendant." John said lightly after people had to start breathing again.

Lestrade stood and moved between them. "Alright, I'll look into it."

To make sure he did John played his trump card, "It's why Moriarty blew up those flats; because Sherlock was wrong."

Lestrade turned and quickly pulled John into an aside, "I thought that was because she described his voice?"

"No." John shook his head. "Moriarty told her to say that to mislead Sherlock."

"Do you have proof?"

John sagged. "No," he admitted. "But it makes more sense, doesn't it?"

"Yeah." Lestrade rubbed his hand through his hair. "Jesus. What a mess."

Greg handed John a package on the way out. John could feel what it was without opening it. He smiled. Good 'ol Greg. John was tempted to throw his cane in the rubbish bin but decided against it at the last minute. There was no need to be wasteful and the thing had come in handy when he needed to poke Sherlock's experiments.

...-...

John spent the time it took him to get back to 221B thinking of all the things he _should_ have said to Donovan. It was a pointless exercise, he was smart and could be quick witted most of the time but Donovan managed to get under his skin. John wondered if this is how Sherlock felt and wished he could have seen something incriminating to embarrass her as much as she did him. John still hadn't managed to come up with anything other than empty threats and, most likely false, accusations when the black car pulled to the curb.

Two men John didn't recognize got out of the front seats and John, having learned his lesson by now, dropped his keys and shouted for Mrs. Hudson. Praying she was home and heard him John reached inside his pocket and pulled out an Asp. With a flick of his arm the metal baton extended. "Bring it!" John growled.

The men raised their hands in surrender and the door opened behind John.

John spun to face the new threat.

" _Really_ , John?"

John was tempted to wallop Mycroft with his weapon, not anywhere too deadly, maybe just break that stupid umbrella he always carried around. He decided against it though. John gestured his head to the men, "Those yours?"

Mycroft nodded primly.

John sighed in both disappointment and relief and whacked the tip of the Asp against the stair so it retracted. He put it back in the pocket he'd modified to hold it before gesturing for Mycroft to continue.

"One has to wonder how you manage to get all these weapons."

"One can wonder all he wants."

"John, in the interest of national security-"

"Oh, stuff it. You took my gun and I needed something to defend myself and my family." John eyed Mycroft. "Besides, I'm pretty sure you already know."

"Indeed."

John shrugged, unwilling to give Mycroft any tangible ammo against Greg. The police had gone to customs and picked up all the imported weapons meant to be destroyed. Lestrade had gone to cover for another officer on leave. Knowing John would get a weapon no matter what and that no one would notice if one telescoping baton went missing Greg filched it rather than risk having to get John out of trouble later.

Or so said Greg.

Mycroft was tapping his finger against the handle of his umbrella.

John frowned; Mycroft normally didn't have any nervous habits. At least, none that came out without Sherlock's petulance. "So, we going to another warehouse?" Mycroft didn't answer and the car was headed to the suburbs so John took that for a no. "You're as pleasant to talk to as Anthea."

Mycroft flinched.

"What?"

Mycroft opened his mouth, took a breath, closed his mouth and finally spoke, "Her name is Jane."

John raised his eyebrows. "Rather plain name. Where did Anthea come from?"

"It was Sherlock's pet name for her."

John was stunned. He'd only heard Sherlock call one person by a pet name that didn't make him look like he was going to be sick while he was saying it. Sherlock had drunkenly slurred Mrs. Hudson's name as Hudders during his stag night. _The_ stag night. John had thought it awful at the time. He didn't understand why Sherlock hadn't invited any of his friends. He refused to examine why the ghost case resonated with him so completely. He was repressed. John didn't want to admit his feelings. He'd found a woman. She was a fine woman, or so he thought. Unrequited love. That whole night was-

"Doctor Watson?"

Blinking rapidly John brought himself to the present. A man was holding the door open for him and John looked around. They were at his and Mary's place. There were three magpies in the garden. _Three for a girl._ Look what that got him!

"John?"

"What are we doing here?" John asked. He was having a bit of trouble keeping the fog at bay. He hadn't felt this bad in weeks.

"As it appears you will not be residing here in the future I have taken it upon myself to assist you."

"Assist me with what?"

Another black car pulled up and a woman in outrageously loud shoes exited the vehicle. "I apologize for my tardiness." She extended a hand to Mycroft.

"Not at all, right on time." Mycroft said politely after a firm shake. His fingers lingered on her venomous coloured nails. It was clear he wasn't impressed with her curly hair and ill fitting suit.

"You must be Mr. Watson."

"Doctor." John corrected with a pointed stare at Mycroft. Who was this woman?

"Of course. You'll have to forgive me; the original agent is indisposed so I'll be taking the lead on this one. I'm Fionn Baile." She went from English public school pronunciation to Munster Irish in the middle of the sentence, pronouncing her name Fee-oon Bi-leigh.

John froze, hand part way extended for a handshake. He knew those words: blonde, residence. She was named fair-haired home... John looked into her eyes. She had a spot. The _spot._ John choked. She reached across the gap and when their fingers touched John woke up.

...-...

John lay panting in Sherlock's bed. He looked around, as was his habit every morning, hoping to see the cat. It had been two weeks. Sometimes John wondered if it was all a dream. They were getting more vivid. He was pretty sure he was going insane.

There was a sharp rapping noise of bone-y knuckles hitting wood.

John was momentarily startled by the noise. He jumped, thinking someone was invading the flat before the person on the other side spoke.

"John? Are you awake? I thought we'd take my car, I sent Mycroft's men ahead."

After rubbing his hands over his face roughly John replied, "Yeah." He wanted to say he was nearly ready but the landlady was surprisingly observant and would know he was lying.

"Good. I've made a full breakfast. Those men can wait. I can't believe the nerve of that man! Sending you over to clean the..." Her voice faded as she moved away.

John smiled. He really did love Hudders.

...-...

John didn't plan a funeral. He refused and Mycroft eventually stopped bringing it up. John didn't know what happened to Mary's body and frankly he didn't care. He told himself he was grateful that Mary gave him Liealia, and that was true. But the second half, the part where he told himself that Mary wasn't a real person and he didn't miss her, was not. Mary had been real to him and he really loved her. She was the moon in the night sky. But Sherlock... Sherlock was the sun. Sherlock was light, life, warmth and made John's previously grey world colourful. There was no comparison.

And as much as John missed Mary it was nothing to how he felt about Sherlock.

Now that John was well Mycroft decided it was time for him to properly move out of the place he shared with Mary. John had no desire to go back, even to pack up, but he couldn't sell it with all Mary's stuff there. The furniture could stay but the rest of it had to go. Mrs. Hudson was tagging along to help him decide what to donate where and Mycroft's minions were there to do the heavy lifting. Then the estate agent would come, they'd put it on the market and John would never have to step foot in there again.

John didn't bother with a shower; Mary's place was probably caked in dust so he planned on doing that when he got back. He dressed deciding against taking the weapon Greg gifted him. He hadn't sewn the pocket in his denims yet.

When he went down to breakfast Mrs. Hudson asked, "Are you alright? You seem a little... keyed up."

"Fine." And John was fine. He didn't want to go do this but after that dream he wanted to meet the estate agent. The magpies nesting in the window had a visitor and all John could think was _three for a girl._

That was something John was studiously not thinking about. Having never met a female Sherlock he wasn't sure about the whole idea. He'd _finally_ come to terms with his sexuality and it seemed like the universe was playing a cruel trick on him if Sherlock came back a woman. It just didn't seem... right. John sighed and went back to not thinking about it.

Greg arrived to babysit and eat leftovers so Mrs. Hudson and John headed out.

...-...

Mrs. Hudson folded clothes as she put them in boxes. John focused on cleaning out the non-perishable food. He noticed one of the agents take some of the nicer bottles of alcohol out of the bin but didn't say anything. It was a waste to bin but he was not going back to that state and he couldn't exactly use open bottles as gifts. Even Greg would raise an eyebrow at that. John told the men to box all the flatware and dishes for donation, he'd hated the pattern but Mary insisted and he didn't care that much. Perhaps if he had been firmer in the beginning she might have agreed to let him name his daughter. Well, John mused, I won that.

The pots and pans were put aside to go back to 221B. John said he didn't know what experiments Sherlock had run in the old ones but really John just wanted them as backups for whenever Sherlock came back.

Next, John went through all the knick-knacks. Some of them were his from his storage unit. He realized the figurine he'd gotten from Grandma Watson was a magpie and decided to haul that back to 221B. Sherlock had plenty of odd trophies from cases and John figured this one was an appropriate memento. It was even stolen. He'd nicked it from the wake because he didn't want Harry to sell it. Even then she'd had a problem. John wished Sherlock and Harry could have talked. She always said he was a posh, arrogant, prat and although she wasn't wrong she never knew about his battles with addiction. Sherlock stumbled every once in a while but overall...

"Doctor Watson?"

"Sorry, what?" John wondered how long he'd been spacing out.

"The estate agent said she couldn't make it. She's sending a junior agent but it will be a bit longer."

John's heart leapt. "Ok."

The spook gave John an odd look before wandering off.

John tried to rearrange his expression into something more normal. Grinning like an idiot was not appropriate when one was a widower cleaning his old residence.

After a minute John gave it up as a bad job and went to box his DVDs. There were a few of Mary's he had no interest in and he knew that Sherlock hardly put up with the movies John liked. Mr. and Mrs. Smith, Salt and Knight and Day were nearly destroyed by the time they made it to the donate box. John thought Mary's love of spy movies complimented his love of James Bond but now the films had a sinister aura John couldn't wait to be free of.

John stared at the last of the discs on the shelf, the home movies. There was the one Sherlock made for his birthday, a couple from vacations John and Mary took together and... John picked up a white case he didn't recognize.

 _Miss Me?_ The words were scrawled across the front in Mary's feminine handwriting.

"Jesus Christ!" He shouted. John dropped the disc as if it burned him.

"John? Are you alright?" Mrs. Hudson and the spooks came running.

It was only after Mycroft arrived that John had the willpower to put the disc into the player. His hand shook as he placed it on the tray and his finger nearly missed the play button.

...-...

Mary's face appeared in the screen. She looked just like she had in the hospital, minus a gunshot wound, plus her skull and sans gaping cesarean hole. She smiled and folded her hands in her lap. "John," the smile twisted darkly, "I wanted us to work out. I had hoped you would join me. We could have been an unstoppable team. You've a very _desirable_ -" John shuttered as she purred the word. "-skill set and it's harder to find someone like you than you'd think.

"You were going to propose to me and I'd start telling you everything. Slowly, of course. I had a plan. And you're such a simple creature."

John's eyes narrowed and his hand balled into a fist.

"But then _he_ came back. He was supposed to be dead! You can never count on someone doing your dirty work for you can you?

"Did he show you the scars? Did he tell you how you tackled him and ripped out all his pretty little stitches?" Mary pouted as she said the last three words in baby talk.

Mycroft audibly ground his teeth.

"Of course not." Her eyes narrowed. "You'll pardon any of his lies; his deceitfulness is forgivable because he's _Sherlock_. What about me, John?"

Mrs. Hudson had her mouth covered and looked pale.

"You didn't even _grieve_ for me. Your wife! I've been watching, John." Everyone looked at each other with wide eyes. "And you've been a very bad boy." Mary snarled the last two words. "I worked so hard. I made you forgive him then I planted the seeds for every doubt you ever had. But it didn't work.

"I thought you were just like me. I thought you understood. It's wrong, John. It's a sin."

"Oh, for heaven sakes!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed angrily when Mary started quoting the bible.

"And now you're tainted. I might have considered taking you back, as a pet, if you had missed me even a little. But you took my daughter and you named her what you wanted. You tacked _his_ name on the birth certificate. I was shoved, almost forgotten, in the middle.

"I'm not having that, John." Mary's eyes were wild now. "But, you did me a favour; you got rid of Jim for me. So I'm doing one for you in return. This is your warning, your only warning. I'm coming for you. I'm going to destroy the life you've built. The cat will be first, disgusting creature. Named after _him_." She turned her head and spat. John could see it dried on the coffee table. "Now, depending on when you watch this the cat might already be gone."

Everyone looked at John but he was having trouble swallowing. Mrs. Hudson gave the affirmative they were looking for.

"Next will be Molly. But I doubt anyone will notice." The video went to static.

Mrs. Hudson cried out and Mycroft started giving orders to find the pathologist.

Mary reappeared but she wasn't brunette any longer. She was blonde again and her eyes were alight with fanatical fury. "And of course your lovely landlady has to go." Mary tilted her head and tutted. "I'm not very patient. I've been too nice with you, John."

There was a tinkling of breaking glass and Mrs. Hudson flinched. "Oh. Oh, dear." Her hand came up to her chest and she fell over.

John watched in horror at the pool of blood appearing under her body.

"Down!" John shouted. "Everybody down!" He pulled the nearest body to the ground. Mycroft fell on John's bad leg, bruising it deeply with his umbrella.

Mary stood and picked a sniper rifle off the ground. She then walked out of the frame. There was a crack of a suppressed fifty-calibre shot and she returned, smiling. She started talking but John wasn't listening. He was keeping pressure on Mrs. Hudson's wound.

"Hang in there." John told her. He couldn't tell if she could hear him or not. "Mycroft!" He barked. "Ambulance eta?"

"Nine minutes." One of the spooks answered.

"We don't have nine minutes!" John responded. The blood was seeping through his fingers. This wasn't like when Mycroft was stabbed. This wasn't like Sherlock's head on the sidewalk. This was real. This was like the war. This was every solider he didn't get to in time. Every good man slain by an unseen sniper with good aim. This was deadly.

This was death.

He was handed a towel and it soaked through immediately. John pushed harder but it was no use. There was no colour left in Mrs. Hudson's lips.

"John," she rasped, "you have to do something... for me."

"No," John sobbed. He couldn't do this again. He couldn't watch someone he cared about, someone he _loved_ die in his arms again. He couldn't be to blame for another-

"John." Mrs. Hudson grabbed John's hand and squeezed. It wasn't nearly as firm a grip as it should have been. "You have to protect her. You have to. Your daughter, John." Mrs. Hudson's eyes were wide and frantic but unfocused. "You have to..."

"Shhh." John hushed as she spoke. "Save your strength. The ambulance will be here soon."

"You can't leave her. She needs you, John."

"I know."

"You can find her. You can't hide."

"Okay, Mrs. Hudson." John choked. "Hudders." The paramedics still hadn't arrived and John knew. There was a change in the air when it was time. A chill he was overly familiar with.

If she didn't get help now she couldn't be saved.

While she might be there still he said what he needed to, "I love you, Mrs. Hudson. You were a mother to us. Sorry if we never said." John thought she must have heard because it wasn't until he vowed, "I'll protect Liea. And Mary won't ever threaten anyone else again," that Mrs. Hudson's grip loosened.

...-...

John followed the ambulance even though the lights were off and the siren was silent.

* * *

End A/N: You can find me on Tumblr ( LookArtThat )and follow my sub-blog "( TheArtOne ) for story updates. I'm on Twitter GizmoTrinket221 slowly turning into a shadowy gremlin.

This is my first attempt at a case fic so please comment if it's enjoyable.


	9. Three for a Girl: The Relationship

A/N: This section of the story is shaping up to have a lot of long chapters. I still have no beta or brit picker so if you can give me any advice let me know.

* * *

John was pretty sure he was dreaming again as he'd been here for what felt like hours and Mycroft wasn't saying anything that made sense. "Sorry, what?" He asked, just in case.

"What with your _relationship_ -" Mycroft sneered, "-with my brother being what it is-"

"Hold on," John said. "What relationship?"

"Indeed. But it is his name as legal guardian on Liealia's paperwork and as such there is a loophole that allows-"

"What? How? He's dead." John wasn't positive, the details of his time spent mourning were more than a little sketchy, but he didn't remember signing anything and he was pretty sure Sherlock didn't sign anything while he was a cat.

Mycroft ignored him. "As I said before you stopped me: I have been informed that magic has been performed in your presence. And, with your domestic life at 221B the minimum requirements have been met; I am obligated, as Sherlock's intermediary since he is indisposed, to inform you..."

John frowned; whatever Mycroft was dancing around couldn't be good. Plus it sounded like he didn't want to say anything to John which meant someone from higher up was forcing him to. John didn't know who Mycroft reported to but he knew that it was best to avoid attention, fade into the background, whenever powerful people were around. Now it appeared that he was important enough to warrant an illuminating discussion with Mycroft Holmes. It was the exact opposite of what John wanted, especially right now.

"You see, John, the Holmes are an ancient family-"

"Oh, for the love of-!" John cut Mycroft and himself off. "Just spit it out!"

"Sherlock isn't dead."

John was aware. But he wasn't entirely sure that his belief was rooted in reality. Therefore, instead of bragging to Mycroft that he knew this and possibly falling into a trap he said, "No, Sherlock is dead. I am a doctor. I was there."

"Mary, it seems, isn't dead either."

"No." John shook his head. He saw the tape, he knew that with a little clever editing it would be easy for whoever put Moriarty's face on every screen in London to put that together and time it with a sniper's shot. The timing was even off! "I saw the body." He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to stop seeing it. Mary wasn't... good. But no one deserved a death like that.

"You saw _a_ body." Mycroft corrected insufferably. "And I know you're afraid. Saying magic is real is an easy way to earn a stay somewhere not pleasant."

John kept his jaw clenched.

"A person only dies when their spirit moves on. However, it is possible to hold a spirit to this plane of existence."

"Like a ghost?" John tried not to let his excitement show by raising an eyebrow and saying cuttingly, "Have you been reading too much Harry Potter?"

"Doctor Watson," Mycroft said gently, "John, you're not crazy. It's real." The moment passed and Mycroft lost any sign of sentiment or weakness. "Now, let's stop playing around."

John wasn't buying it. One of the first things Mycroft learned about John was what he used as a weapon, _trust issues_. Those weren't built overnight and John trusted his instincts. There was something _off_ about this meeting.

"I was unaware until very recently that Sherlock decided to stay. He somehow acquired a magpie as a familiar while in Poland." Mycroft looked very put out about this. "He'd never shown an ounce of magical ability while we were children-"

John kept the thought that they were both still children to himself.

"-or when he was a teenager. Although, it makes more sense now..."

When Mycroft trailed off John took the bait, "What does?"

"The fact that he survived." Mycroft examined his umbrella as he said, "I watched my brother try to kill himself in so many ways so many times. And the times I wasn't available were numerous."

John felt sick.

"My brother has never been... _well_. I'm sure you've seen it. It doesn't take a doctor to-"

"Yeah, yeah." John didn't want to hear Sherlock spoken about this way. He knew that Sherlock wasn't like other people. That's why John liked him. Whether Sherlock had aspergers, was bi-polar or was just so intelligent other people couldn't understand him and vice versa was none of John's business. At first John tried to diagnose him; he'd even spoken to Greg about it. But that was years ago. Sherlock was Sherlock and that was more than good enough for John.

"I tried to stifle Sherlock's sentimentality. My magic is produced by logic." Mycroft rubbed the ring on his right hand and the woman John knew as Anthea shimmered into existence at his side.

"Yes, sir?" She asked, not looking up from her phone.

John stumbled backwards.

"It's time." Mycroft said. "Release your glamour."

Anthea did.

Anthea was not human.

"Jesus Christ!" John yelped.

"Very funny." She said flatly, attention going back to her phone.

"Anthea is a ghoul, not a vampire." Mycroft informed John. "Holy artifices have no hold on her."

"R-right."

"The Holmes's are masters of death, also known as necromancers."

"Right." John was positive now that he was dreaming but somehow this dream made the most sense of all the ones in the past and was the least disconcerting of all. It's like John's subconscious was taking Sherlock's interest in the macabre and Mycroft's aura of unsettling august-ness and combined them into a family trait. More often than not recently John's dreams were somehow prophetic. Sometimes it was a minor thing, like a modified pocket; sometimes it was major, and John really hoped this one didn't come true. It was, perhaps, this sense of unreality that made John say, "Is your name Jane?"

Not Anthea looked up from her phone, eyes flashing red. "Yes." She glanced at Mycroft.

"No, he's not yet been added to the family registry." Mycroft said to her before he glared at John darkly. "I don't know where you heard that name but you will forget it, immediately."

Jane - Anthea -smiled widely at John, rows of sharp pointy teeth bared.

"Anthea is a family servant and if her true name is spoken by any member in her presence she will be released."

"So?" John was appalled. It was slavery!

"So?!" Mycroft was looking at John like he was a particularly dense goldfish. "Anthea is a ghoul! A flesh-eater that breeds by biting the living and turning them into the undead. Releasing her would also release all the spells my family has put on her that holds her in check."

"You... eat people?"

Anthea had lost interest in the conversation and her focus was mostly on her phone. "I did when I could."

John, being John, had to ask, "You wouldn't anymore though, right? If you were released?"

"Answer honestly," Mycroft ordered.

Anthea pouted and said wistfully, "It's been a long time since I've had contact with others of my kind. Europe is rather overdue for a nice plague."

John blinked. He didn't quite know what to do with that.

"I must say, you're taking this rather more calmly than I forsaw," Mycroft said.

John shrugged; there was no point in getting worked up over a dream.

"In that case, I brought you here because you need to understand what you're up against. Although Mary is a threat she's nowhere near as dangerous as this new player."

"Why?"

Mycroft ignored the question. "You're going to need our family's protection. There are two ways to go about this." He motioned to Anthea and she disappeared before reappearing with a book. "We can adopt you into the family. Your parents are deceased so it wouldn't pose a problem."

John disagreed. Being Mycroft's, _Sherlock's_ , brother was unacceptable. Apparently his response was written on his face because Mycroft moved on quickly.

"The other option is marriage."

John choked. "A-are you _proposing?!_ "

Mycroft was not amused. "Of course not."

"Well unless you have a sibling no one's ever heard of..."

"John, don't be obtuse."

John gestured wildly. "Well what am I supposed to think?! Your parents are still together."

"John." Mycroft said, eyebrows raised as if it was obvious. When all he got in response was a shrug Mycroft said, "Sherlock. I'm talking about my brother, Doctor Watson."

"Sherlock is dead."

Mycroft looked unimpressed. "Let me know your answer soon. We don't have a lot of time."

John said sardonically, "I don't care what you do, looks like either way I end up with you as a brother." He huffed and left.

...-...

John startled awake, chest heaving. Sherlock was dead. Sherlock was _dead_. Sherlock was never coming back. Unlike Mary. Mary came back. John told Mary he loved her.

He hated her.

She'd shot two of the most important people in his life now. She missed both times, thank God. But they both still would have died if John hadn't been there. John kept pressure on Sherlock's wound and Mrs. Hudson's until help arrived; the paramedics at the first scene and some of Mycroft's secret minions the second. Blood, assured that it was Mrs. Hudson's type was hooked into her and John got her mostly stable, as best he could given the situation, by the time the ambulance arrived. The shot was wider than John originally thought. It made John wonder, he never forgot what Shan said about assassins and missing.

John stood and checked on his daughter, she was sleeping soundly in the cot next to Sherlock's bed. John dreamed every night now and it was getting harder and harder to tell the dreams from reality. Of course, if his life hadn't been so messed up he wouldn't have the problem. First Sherlock, then Moriarty and now Mary were back from the dead. It wasn't hard to see why John thought Sherlock was coming back again.

Molly was still missing. It had been a week and there were no new leads. Both John and Lestrade were at their wits end. John didn't realize Greg fancied her so much. John thought they were a good match and prayed they'd find the pathologist safe and sound. God only knew what Mary was doing to her.

It was surprising that Sherlock hadn't found a way back, what with Molly, Liealia and John being in such danger. This was just the impossible sort of puzzle Sherlock loved too. That's how John knew he wasn't alive anymore. Sherlock wouldn't leave at such a crucial time, right?

He'd met the real estate agent. She was nice but it was obvious she was just a regular woman. She wasn't Sherlock in disguise. And although she seemed inappropriately interested considering when his wife died John had no desire to see her romantically. He didn't want to paint himself into a corner just in case but he was pretty sure he was done with women. Nothing good ever came out of any of his relationships and everyone close to him got hurt. First Sarah, then Mary, maybe, and of course Sherlock...

That was the excuse he was using not to see his sister. She called after she heard about Mary's death. Usually John was the one to suggest they meet but he didn't and she didn't offer. Without realizing it John had made plans in his head: Sherlock would come back, they'd go together to Harry's, they'd announce their relationship, have a successful intervention and they'd all live happily ever after. John snorted. He honestly didn't see anyone living happily ever after in real life and he was certain he didn't deserve to. He could feel the distance between his sister and him grow but it was better, safer, this way.

Liealia woke and John took her with him into the kitchen where he made a bottle one handed. "We're going to go get Grandma Hudson from the hospital today," he told her.

She gurgled happily.

"Uncle Greg is going to go with us, probably uncle Mycroft too."

Liea smiled at Greg's name and sneezed at Mycroft's.

"Yeah. I agree." John wiped the snot from her nose. "But it's worth it to keep everyone safe."

She looked skeptical. So did the three magpies watching through the window.

Apparently, John thought to himself, the universe does not revolve around Sherlock Holmes. Because if three magpies were for a girl the very last girl John wanted- expected -to see was Mary.

Greg arrived in one of Mycroft's cars bringing with him Mycroft's apologies and excuses. John just growled and set up the car seat. He figured Mycroft was avoiding him and the safe house conversation.

...-...

John had just gotten Mrs. Hudson in 221A settled when the doorbell rang. John left Liealia with her and ran to answer, figuring Mycroft just wanted to make an entrance since he never showed at the hospital. There was a woman in a nice pant suit outside and for John's heart leapt. She said she was from the HMRC. John was more than a little conscious of the weapon hidden in his pocket but she was here for Sherlock.

"He's dead." John said without preamble.

She blinked at his bluntness but conducted herself smoothly, "That's why I'm here, Mr. Watson-Holmes. May I come in?"

"It's Doctor." John corrected automatically. He was so uncomfortable having a stranger near his family he missed the second last name. After he verified her identity, Ms. Nancy Gables, with the help of the bodyguards out front he sent a quick text was sent to Greg just in case Mycroft was indisposed. Greg hadn't left too long ago so John figured he'd respond quickly. Ms. Gables was either very professional or she wasn't surprised by the amount of security around the flat. Both options made John wary so he took her to 221B.

"It's my understanding that Mr. Holmes died a little over two months ago, is that right?"

"I don't know. I think so," John answered honestly. Wanting the woman gone as fast as possible he said, "Sorry, but what's this all about?"

"Well, I'd just like to start by saing that I'm very sorry for your loss."

"Thanks?" John was rather nonplussed by this whole interaction. Was she talking about Mary or Sherlock? She said she was here for Sherlock but as far as she knew Sherlock was just John's flatmate.

"But you were supposed to inform us of your spouse's death. Changing the trust from one vulnerable person to another does not qualify-"

"Sorry, what?" John was fairly certain Mary didn't have a trust. And she certainly wasn't a vulnerable person.

"A VPE1 was filed with our office by your solicitor." Ms. Gables acted like this explained everything.

Except Harry was John's solicitor and he was fairly certain she would have called about a trust if she had anything to do with it. "Um..." John hedged. He had a feeling he knew where this was coming from and that Mycroft had left out some important information last time they spoke.

"You have no idea what I'm talking about, do you?"

John gave up all pretence, "Yeah, why don't you start at the beginning."

She nodded as if she expected this. "Your husband-"

"Sorry, what?"

"Mr. Holmes, your husband." When John didn't do anything but blink with his mouth wide open she became concerned, "Doctor Watson-Holmes, are you alright?"

John managed to close his mouth. "Sorry," not knowing what else to do John said, "continue."

"Yes, well, he had a family trust..." She trailed off and changed what she was going to say next at John's expression. "I take it you were unaware of the trust."

"No, no. I'm sure his brother mentioned it." John wasn't positive but he did say something about not wanting for money, didn't he? Mycroft had dropped off a bank card and other information at one point but everything about that interaction was rather fuzzy.

"Well, from the paperwork it appears that a Mr. Mycroft Holmes was the trustee and he is transferring that duty to you and the trust itself is being moved into a Miss Liealia-" she butchered the name "-Watson-Holmes's name." She produced some paperwork from her bag. "Is this your signature?"

It looked like John's signature, if he were drunk. Which, if he had signed anything when Mycroft came over with the bank card he would have been. "Yeah. You'll have to forgive me; I wasn't myself during that time. I don't remember much." He admitted ruefully. Like, apparently, marrying his best friend. That would have sobered him up fast. John wondered just what Mycroft had been up to.

"Understandable." She said, going back to her bag.

One of the magpies flapped his wings and let out a rough screech loud enough to be heard through the glass. John turned to look at it but it was pecking at the glass, if John didn't know better he'd say the bird was trying to warn him...

John turned back to the woman just as she pulled a gun from the bag. "Shit!" Not having many options John decided to step toward her and try to disarm her. "HELP!" He called down the stairs praying someone heard him. Grabbing her wrist he used his superior strength to hold gun to the ceiling. She fired as John tried to break her wrist. She got some good punches in to his face but he managed to hold her at bay until backup came.

"Who sent you?" John demanded once she was disarmed and subdued.

"Fuck you!" She spat rabidly.

There was a loud crack of a sniper fire and John, as well as Mycroft's agents, dropped to the floor. The woman, who John suspected was not Ms. Nancy Gables, fell as well but she had a hole in her chest.

One of the agents moved across the floor of the room quickly and closed the blinds as John put pressure on the wound. "Who sent you?" He asked again.

"Moriarty." She said with a manic laugh.

"Moriarty is dead!" John pushed on the wound so hard he felt a rib break.

She didn't even flinch and the next words came out without so much as a cough despite the large amount of bubbling blood coming from her lips, "Moriarty can't die. 'To die was an art.' The master of death."

"What does that mean?"

The woman's pupils were fixed and the blood flow had slowed considerably.

John checked for a pulse and cursed when he didn't find one. She was dead.

The woman took a deep breath, startling John and nearly causing him to miss the next words, "Did you miss me?" Another breath, a different voice, "Did you miss me?" Another breath, Mary's voice, "Did you miss me?" Another breath, Moriarty's voice, "Did you miss me?"

John shouted and stole the firearm off one of the spooks. He shot the body in the head twice.

"G-gu-ss n-tt," gurgled out along with insane laughter.

John emptied the clip and the room was silent aside from the slide-click of the action as John pulled the trigger twice more to make sure.

"She's dead, mate." The agent said, carefully taking the empty weapon from John.

John realized he was shaking. He asked, "Did you hear that?"

It was obvious from the agents' expressions that they hadn't. "The gunshot?" One asked tentatively.

"No!" John waved his arms widely, spraying thick droplets of blood across the room.

"The bird?" The other asked, indicating the magpie that was going bonkers on the other side of the glass and curtains.

John shook his head in dismay. Was he going insane?

Mycroft entered. "Out." He ordered and his men hastened to obey.

"Were you here?" John asked, meaning to ask if Mycroft heard the dead woman speak.

"Yes, but the message was only for you. I couldn't hear it either." Mycroft leaned over the body and started examining it. "What did she say?"

"'Did you miss me?' only in different voices."

"Whose voices?" Mycroft asked without looking up.

"Moriarty's, Mary's, her's and one I didn't recognize."

"Would you be able to identify it if I played a sample?"

"Maybe." John wasn't sure. He was answering on autopilot. John realized he was trembling.

"Do you remember what I told you last time we spoke?" Without waiting for an answer Mycroft touched his ring.

Anthea shimmered into existence beside him. "Oh, the brains are gone," she said sullenly.

"You're not here to eat. Can you see the magic?"

John sighed in relief, he was dreaming.

"It's faint, _very_ well done. I can't say for sure but it feels the same as the other one."

"Other one?" John asked, not expecting an answer.

He didn't get one. "Tell me everything. Any small detail could be important," Mycroft demanded of him.

"Can I wash up first?" John asked, eyeing his bloodstained hands and ruined clothing.

"No."

John rolled his eyes.

"Anthea? Tea." Mycroft took a seat in John's chair.

John sat on the coffee table, keeping the body between them. He thought he saw Mycroft frown but it was gone when he looked again. Well, he mused, at least I'm allowed tea and the blood will be gone when I wake up.

The tea service came with one of Mrs. Hudson's crocheted blankets and John was grateful. "Thanks."

Anthea looked shocked. After a too long pause she said, "You're welcome," with a smile.

* * *

End A/N: I have no idea how the HMRC works so I gathered what I could from their website: (links disabled on this site but it's a government source) either suspend belief or correct me. :P

As for the last chapter's ending: I did some research and it looks like ambulances in the UK don't typically run the sirens if there's someone inside and especially wouldn't if the person was stable. I didn't see much about their light rules so I went with my experiences in the US, where if the person inside is stable and they're not going to break any traffic laws they don't use them.

Sorry not sorry for the misdirect.

Teaser playlist for chapter three: (youTube link can be found on my Tumblr TheArtOne or on AO3)


	10. Three for a Girl: The Insanity

A/N: Some of the inspiration for this chapter came from various sentinel/guide aus I've read. I apologize in advance for all the dialogue.

* * *

"You mustn't lose faith, John."

"Hm?" John took one of the earbuds out. "Sorry, what?"

"In my brother," Mycroft clarified, "you mustn't lose faith that he'll return."

"Right." John put the earbud back in.

"He's getting weaker. I know what you're thinking."

John turned up the volume.

"You're thinking this is all a dream. That magic isn't real; that you just had some sort of psychotic break and now you're getting back to normal."

John sighed in aggravation. "Do you mind? I can't listen to you and focus on the-"

"This is more important! I'm not going to lose Sherlock because you decided to be stubborn."

John ripped both earbuds out with a yank on the cord, wincing as they pulled on his ears. "Sherlock. Is. Dead. I don't know how to explain this to you so that you'll understand but he's not coming back."

Mycroft whacked John over the head with his umbrella. "Now, look here John Hamish Watson-Holmes-"

John rubbed the smarting skin and felt a lump starting to form. "That's another thing I wanted to talk to you about. Since when am I married to your brother?!"

Mycroft ignored him as was his wont, "I hereby forbid you from saying anything about Sherlock that isn't true." He poked John in the forehead between the eyes with the very tip of his umbrella.

John felt a chill run down his spine. "What the fuck, Mycroft?! You could have put my eye out!"

"Language."

John shot a glance at his daughter. "She's not even old enough to- You know what? Never mind. Can I get back to work?"

"Don't bother. If you haven't recognized the voice by now you're not likely to. You've gone though the most probable suspects already."

With a frown John said, "That's the thing though, I know I know it. I've heard it before."

Anthea brought John some tea and John beamed at her, "Thanks."

"You're welcome."

"Where's mine?" Mycroft demanded. John noticed the more time he spent with his apparent brother in law the more comfortable Mycroft became in his presence. Mycroft dropped his guard bit by bit and became the childish git he was near Sherlock and his parents.

"Get it yourself." Anthea snapped at him.

John giggled.

Mycroft rubbed his ring, John had noticed now that Anthea wore a matching one on her finger. "Tea."

"Fine." She spun on her heel and stalked off.

"She's going to spit in it."

She didn't, of course. But John could smell that the milk she used was off the date.

Mycroft sighed heavily and put the cup aside. He looked very put upon.

"Would it be possible to make recordings of everyone Sherlock had normal contact with?" John asked. It was important. This new person might lead them to Molly. The pathologist hadn't turned up anywhere, nor had her body. John felt more queasy by the day.

"Yes, although tracking his entire homeless network will-"

"No," John shook his head, "it was someone I interacted with regularly."

"Anthea?" Mycroft prompted, rubbing his ring.

She cleared her throat, "Did you miss me?" came out in Donovan's voice.

"No."

"Did you miss me?" Greg Lestrade.

"No, it was a girl."

Mycroft rolled his eyes. "That would have been helpful-"

"Shh!" John waited for Anthea to do the next voice. "I'm not sure it's a girl, it could have been a high pitched man," he added when Mycroft glared at him.

"Did you miss me?" John didn't recognize that voice.

"No."

"Did you miss me?"

"Close. Not quite."

"Did you miss me?" The same voice was more mocking and sinister this time.

"That's it!"

Anthea looked upset, she and Mycroft shared a look.

"Who was it?"

Anthea cleared her throat, "Molly Hooper."

"How?"

Mycroft's lips formed a thin line. "How indeed. Anthea will take you home."

John sighed. "Before I go, did you think about the safe house issue?"

Once again John lost the argument over a safe house for Mrs. Hudson and his daughter. John understood Mycroft's position, he really did, but it just seemed unreasonable. Mycroft felt that he had a mole on his staff and therefore 221B was safer than anywhere Mycroft could come up with. John, meanwhile, would have liked somewhere more defensible figuring that Mary or whoever knew where they were so it didn't matter where they were bait from. Mycroft never properly denied he was using them as bait and John didn't know why he bothered opening his mouth. He could take his daughter and go but he couldn't leave Mrs. Hudson.

The doorbell rang and John let Greg in.

"How's she doing?"

"Good, how's the search going?"

Greg just shook his head.

John sighed. He felt like he should be doing more. But there wasn't much he could do. He wasn't Sherlock, he couldn't see the little things like that. And Mycroft wouldn't let him near any real information anyway.

"Did you talk to Mycroft about the marriage thing?"

John's eye twitched. "No, he kept changing the subject. For all I know we've been married since I moved in."

Lestrade laughed, "But wouldn't your marriage to Mary be fake then?"

"It was anyway, Mary wasn't her real name. She stole it from a stillborn." John had told himself this many times but it didn't change the fact that the marriage had been real to him.

Greg flinched. He shuffled his feet uncomfortably.

"Oh, sorry, come on in, been hanging out in Mrs. Hudson's flat so she'll stop trying to go upstairs." John opened the door and gestured for Greg to go though.

"How's the little miss?" He cooed at the baby.

"If she'd let me sleep I'd be a lot happier with her." John joked, the dark circles under his eyes showing Greg the truth in the statement.

"Guess I'm lucky the Mrs. and I never had kids," Greg said ruefully.

John had been making an effort to be more open and talk more. He couldn't survive without hope that he'd end up in another relationship, he needed them to feel complete, and communication was one of his weak spots. He swallowed painfully before forcing out, "Did you want them?"

"Yeah."

"'s not too late."

Greg rolled his eyes. "Speak for yourself, mate. I don't know if you noticed but I'm not exactly-"

"Oh, shush." Mrs. Hudson interrupted. "You young people, always thinking you're old."

"Mrs. Hudson, you're not supposed to be up!"

"Well, you forgot the tea."

John sighed in mock exasperation and bathed in the warm glow of domesticity.

"Is Molly dead?" John asked the question on everyone's mind when Mycroft finally arrived.

"We're unsure." Mycroft sat primly and took a sip of his tea. "The body we found was supposed to look like her but on further investigation it was clear it wasn't." He sat the cup in the saucer. "That doesn't leave this room, as far as everyone else is concerned Ms. Hooper is deceased. We're hoping we can lure whoever set this trap into a false sense of security."

"Who's doing this?" Greg asked. "Surely you have some idea."

"We do." Mycroft shot a meaningful look at John who had no idea what he was talking about.

"You going to share?" Greg glared at them both.

"Not at this time." Mycroft set his tea aside.

"Might be more helpful if everyone was on the same page." John said pointedly.

Mycroft gave John the goldfish look. John hated that look.

Anthea arrived and John smiled at her, "I've been meaning to ask, what name do you prefer? I've been calling you Anthea but is there a name you'd like better?"

"Anthea is fine," she said coolly.

John frowned; he didn't know what he said wrong. He had thought they'd been getting along better ever since- of course! John could have smacked himself. All those interactions were dreams!

Then she winked at him as she refilled the tea and John was left very confused.

"See if you can talk some sense into him, yeah? We need his information down at the Yard if we're going to get anywhere." Greg said as he put on his jacket. It was getting warmer but the weather wasn't nice yet.

"I'll do my best," John said without much hope.

Greg clapped John on the shoulder and turned to leave. "Oh!" He spun back. "We spoke to Raoul."

"Yeah?"

"Maintains he's guilty, even told us the instructions came from a woman. Apparently she was Moriarty's second in command. That fits with the handwriting on the envelope found at the first bombing so we're inclined to believe him."

John shook his head. "No way! He's covering. Although, he must be a little bit guilty if he knows the woman who wrote on that envelope left for Sherlock at the first bomb site." John frowned and thought aloud, "Maybe he feels guilty for his part in it or for those people's deaths?"

"Donno." Lestrade put his hands in his pockets. "Just thought you should know, we're keeping the case closed."

"No!" John said loudly, startling even himself. He cleared his throat and continued at a more reasonable volume, "No. This is important. If we find this woman we might find Molly."

"You know what I can't figure out?"

"Hm?"

"Why'd Mary take Molly but shoot Mrs. Hudson?"

John shrugged. "Why'd she shoot Sherlock? Who knows? She's crazy."

"That's the thing though, she killed the cat-"

John couldn't hear more of that and cut him off, "We don't know that for sure, the cat is just missing."

"Right, well. She tried to- wait, _she_ was the one who shot Sherlock?!"

"Yeah, thought you knew."

"And you got back together with her?! Did you know?"

John shifted uncomfortably, "Um-"

" _Jesus_." Lestrade brought his hand to his mouth as he thought. After a tense moment he said, "You know, you have a point. People in love are insane. Raoul is probably covering. I'll talk to the brother."

John frowned, "What do you mean-"

"You're not an idiot." Greg said darkly. "You know what I mean."

John thought about how Sherlock shot Magnussen; about how he kept his vow despite what would have happened to him; John swallowed thickly. He'd thought, in private, that Sherlock's best man speech was more than friendly; that if Sherlock had spoken like that before the fall-

"John?"

John snapped back to reality. "Sorry."

Greg looked concerned. "You ok?"

"Yeah, that happens sometimes. Don't worry about it." John thought that was the perfect combination of openness and honesty that he was working toward without being too much.

"I'll tell you what the brother says. You tell me what Mycroft says?"

"Yeah..." John was still thinking about hugging Sherlock at the wedding, about how he touched Sherlock more intimately than his new pregnant wife when Sherlock broke the news of the baby, and the handshake on the tarmac...

Greg looked sad, worn and more understanding than he should have when he said goodbye.

John waved him off before shutting the door and leaning against it heavily. He knocked the back of his head against it before allowing his face to fall forward into his hands.

"Welcome back." Mycroft said, clearly referring to how long it took John to return after seeing to Greg's departure.

"Shut it."

"Well, now that he's gone we can discuss what we've found. John, you are forbidden from telling Greg or anyone else not approved about magic." Mycroft finished his statement with another poke of his umbrella.

"Hey!" John protested but his heart wasn't in it. He must have gone upstairs and fallen asleep if people were talking about magic again. "What about Mrs. Hudson?"

"The Hudson's are another magical family. Mrs. Hudson has some magic too."

John eyed her suspiciously.

"Oh, don't give me that look. I'm perfectly normal. I'm a bit like you."

John sputtered, "Me?!"

Mycroft said at the same time equally surprised, "John?!"

"Of course, don't tell me you didn't know?"

They both shook their heads.

"I thought the cat was John's familiar but it is the magpie." Mrs. Hudson explained.

"The magpie is Sherlock's familiar." Mycroft argued.

"No." Mrs. Hudson thought for a moment. "Well, one of them out there might be, but one is certainly John's."

"We'd know if the Watson's had any magical aptitude."

"Except you wouldn't because- oh wait a moment." Mrs. Hudson tried to get up and John helped her. She grabbed a teapot and poured tea while muttering something under her breath. She waited until everyone had at least one sip. "Right, well. John is a _protector_. That's why you didn't know about him."

"All the seers died out generations ago." Mycroft replied while John could see the pompous dismissive-ness in his expression.

"Except his line. They have some powerful magic hiding them but the last Watson with any powers died before any grandchildren showed talent so John and his sister never learned to control it."

John was getting a headache; this was insane. "This is insane," he repeated the thought aloud because no one else was going to.

"It can't be, Mrs. Hudson is a sooth-sayer. I need to- Urp!" Mycroft's eyes bugged out. "What have you done?!"

"Protected him and his sister from your lot." Mrs. Hudson winked at John. "I'm not too shabby with the charms myself. He can't go telling the higher ups about you. It protects your daughter too, but these things tend to skip a generation."

"How did you, the spell... Your bonded item is a tea-pot?! The tea!"

"Yes, well. A good cuppa can work magic." Mrs. Hudson looked smug. "You're confused." Mrs. Hudson said with a nod after looking at John's expression. "You see, to work magic the lot of us need a bonded object or a familiar. You didn't start getting the dreams until the magpies came, did you?"

"That's right."

"You exist to protect people, that's why you became a doctor and why you went to war, you can't help but fight for good and save lives, it's in your blood. All protectors come from the seer line, you get a sense of when someone is in danger whether you see the future or just have a gut feeling. Seers can also have prophetic dreams. The other side of seers is empaths. Where you're the physical your sister is the emotional. Her job is to help people emotionally. Empaths can feel the emotions around people, the more negative the emotion the stronger they feel them. It's a heavy burden to bear. That's why they are more likely to _see_ the future, so they can prevent some of that emotional turmoil."

John felt numb. His sister had been suffering and he'd never known. He added to it. She said she knew Clara would leave and John said she was being crazy. He was always upset whenever he spoke to her...

"It's imperative that empaths get proper training or they go insane." Mrs. Hudson continued as if John's world wasn't falling apart fast enough.

"If I can't tell anyone about her how am I going to-" Mycroft was cut off by Mrs. Hudson.

"I'm going to teach John and when he's ready he's going over to his sister's and together we'll teach her."

"It's too dangerous. Empaths are incredibly powerful." Mycroft protested hotly.

"Then we'll bring her here, Baker Street is protected by some of the best magic in the country."

John felt dizzy. This wasn't right. Was his sister ok? Was this dream trying to tell him to protect her? Was Mary after her?

"This isn't a dream, John."

"No." John felt like he was under water.

"John? Doctor Watson, are you alright?"

"No." John couldn't breathe.

"He's having a panic attack."

"Don't touch me!" John shrieked.

Anthea appeared in his line of sight and put a cool hand on each cheek. "John, look at me."

"No." John tried to beat her off but she was too strong.

Her glamour faded and she looked like a ghoul. "This is real. And you need to calm down if you're going to help your sister. Don't you want to help her? You're twins, right? Don't you miss feeling close to her?"

"Yes." John said weakly.

"That's it, breathe with me. In, out, in... good. Like that. She needs you, John. You're the only one who can help her."

John took one shuddering breath after another. When he calmed he said weakly, "I'm ok. Thank you." He was embarrassed by his outburst.

"Nothing to be ashamed about." She helped him up. "Mrs. Hudson made a nice cup of tea, why don't you have some."

John took some sips and started to feel sleepy before he'd even finished. "Damnit," he moaned. "When will you all stop drugging me?" The cup fell to the floor but didn't break. John slumped forward, fast asleep.

When he woke he had an awful crick in his neck. "God, what a weird dream," he muttered as he tried to work the sore muscles.

Anthea plopped down in the seat next to him. "Feeling any better?"

John almost fell backwards in his chair out of shock but the ghoul caught him.

"They aren't dreams, John."

"Yes they are. Sherlock is..." Try as he might John couldn't say the word dead. "Alive." John's eyes widened and he looked at Anthea pleading, "Sherlock is alive?"

"Sort of. He's not dead, anyway."

A giant weight was lifted from John's shoulder. "Well then, where the fuck is he?!"

Anthea shrugged. "Another body turned up. I'm to take you there now that you're awake."

"How's Mrs. Hudson?"

"She's fine. Greg is babysitting."

"Oh, he just left..." Anthea was giving him a strange look so he asked, "What?"

"John, I know it's hard to tell with all the windows covered, but are you really not aware that it's morning?"

John groaned. "What about Greg's work?"

"Don't worry about that." Anthea stood and extended a hand to John. "Well? Shall we?"

He glared at her, "You just left me at the table all night?"

"Well, I was at the body for a fair amount of the time. Besides, most people don't want a ghoul carrying them around and as much weight as you've lost you're still not light."

John could understand this and he hated to appear weak but he'd already decided he needed to be less closed off. He said, "I don't mind if you carry me, in the future. Just not in front of everyone, yeah?" Anything would be worth waking up with less of a headache. Plus, with Mary and who knows who else out there the painful distraction might be the difference between life and death.

"Oh, almost forgot. Go grab your familiar. It'll be hard to do magic without it."

Slightly dazed and still under the influence of the sedative John went upstairs without another word. He angled his body so it was unlikely he'd be seen by a sniper or anyone watching and opened the window. All three magpies hopped in, squawking loudly. It sounded like they were upset at being left outside so long.

"Yeah, yeah. Sorry." John rubbed his hand through his hair. He needed a haircut. "Which one of you is mine?"

They all looked offended but one flew to his shoulder.

"Right. Do you have a name?"

The magpie cackled.

"I guess you'll tell me later." John mumbled and turned to go. At the door he said to the others, "Don't make a mess while I'm gone." He went downstairs still thinking that this was all insane.

* * *

End A/N: I'm sorry if it seems like the characters waver and change their minds a lot. In my experience people have a tendency to fall back on old habits even when they firmly decide something; especially if that decision is made in haste during an emotional time.


	11. Three for a Girl: The Body

A/N: I know this story is moving at a crawl; it picks up starting now.

Sorry for the shorter chapter. I had a bit of writer's block with this one.

* * *

John grasped Anthea's clammy hand and instantly felt sick. Not because she was a ghoul; he had felt better when she pulled him out of that panic attack. This was because she twisted and shimmered without warning, teleporting them to a crime scene where John quickly found a corner and vomited.

Mycroft pulled a handkerchief out of his pocket and handed it to him.

John waved the offer away in between heaves. All he could think about as he tried to get his stomach back under control was how upset Sherlock would be that John contaminated a crime scene.

John finally managed to get his stomach back under his control.

He turned to the room and blushed, everyone was staring. The magpie on his shoulder flapped their wings in agitation. John ran his finger down the bird's side to calm them. He wished he knew more about birds so he knew if the bird was a girl or a boy.

"John," Mycroft greeted and gestured to the body, "tell us what you see."

Nodding John took a pair of gloves from Anthea. He leaned over the corpse. The cause of death looked like the gunshot, but... John turned the dead woman's head from side to side. She'd had some cosmetic surgery. She had scars behind both ears and around her scalp. John opened her mouth and saw extensive scarring. He checked her fingers before snapping her gloves off.

"Well?"

"Cause of death is likely poisoning caused by ingesting acid. She was rejecting the hair implants too. She was shot here but didn't die here. She was moved."

"Notice anything else?"

John frowned, what was he missing?

"Perhaps a striking resemblance to a certain missing young woman?"

John shook his head and said, "It's not Molly. She's had extensive plastic surgery to _look_ like Molly but the scars-"

"Good, you can see them," Mycroft interrupted. "Now touch your familiar, can you see anything else?"

John carefully stoked the bird's wing and gasped. The corpse lit up like Christmas. There were unusual designs covering the body and writing John didn't understand seemingly etched into the skin. It was all one colour, a poisonous looking green. Carefully John kept a finger on his familiar and took a closer look. "Amazing."

"What do you see?"

John explained as best he could. And when he looked up at Mycroft John was shocked to see very vivid light blue writing around him. John told Mycroft about it but Mycroft dismissed it when John said the colour. It clearly wasn't harmful.

There was a note on the wall written in what appeared to be fresh blood: Love cannot sustain forever, one day the illusion will die. John knew Mycroft would be investigating that bit. He didn't recognize the quote and was here for the corpse.

Mycroft managed to look both excited and put out simultaneously. "Can you draw what you see?"

John shrugged. "I'm no artist but I can try."

Mycroft rubbed his ring and ordered Anthea to get some paper and a pencil.

John didn't know what he was expecting but it wasn't to be sent on his merry way after he was finished sketching every design and trying to replicate all the strange writing he found on the corpse. It took hours to get everything onto paper and then Mycroft made John number each sketch and write the corresponding number on a diagram of the body. Mycroft even hand Anthea turn the body over so John could do the back.

He declined Anthea's invitation to travel by teleportation and opted for one of Mycroft's cars. John's familiar pecked at the leather and bit him on the ear when he eyed the scotch. John rubbed the sore spot but resisted the urge to reach for the drink and chose water instead. He even poured a glass for the bird and they drank gratefully.

Mycroft had sent him home with a book entitled: Magic and the Fiends that Wield It and John opened it to the first chapter, desperate for enlightenment on this new world he'd suddenly become a part of; even if the book's title didn't give him much hope of factual information.

 _There are numerous schools of magic. The most obvious is the elemental, those mages who can control all or just one of fire, water, wind, earth and electricity. There are the illusionists that bewitch the senses, sight, sound, smell, touch and taste. The enchanters prey on feelings, charming others to their side. Even necromancers exist, powerful evil doers that raise the dead._

John snorted at the last sentence and set the book aside.

John stepped out of the shiny black vehicle and unlocked the door. At into the entrance he could hear his daughter crying. Correction, screaming. She was terrified. John's familiar flew off his shoulder headed upstairs as soon as he got the door open. John didn't bother chasing the bird. Eyes wide John ran to 221A but the door was locked. John tried the other door but it was locked too. "Greg! Mrs. Hudson!" John called out but received no response.

Acting on instinct John threw his shoulder against the door and grunted when it reminded him that it was violently injured in another country. Never being one to give up John aimed a sharp kick and heard the wood start splintering. Encouraged, John kicked twice more and on the fourth kick the door swung on its hinges granting him entry.

John's familiar returned with two agitated friends and all four of them entered the room at once. John stood at the entrance, checking for threats. His magpie flew to him and he held out his arm. The bird landed on his hand and John was surprised by how light the creature was. But not nearly as surprised as he was by how the room lit up with magic he could now see. There was more of that strange writing but it was blasted apart. Lines once making intricate designs now had vivid red scars through the middle.

John swallowed and moved forward slowly. He ushered the bird to his shoulder and kept a finger on the clawed foot. The bird scooted closer to him and when feathers touched John's hair and neck he moved his hand. He could still see the magic and he rubbed the bird thankfully before reaching his hand into his pocket and pulling out the Asp. He made a lot of noise entering and he figured a little more wouldn't hurt so he swung his arm to extend the weapon before holding it ready.

Then his instincts engaged in a battle. He wanted to enter cautiously knowing that if he was hurt he wouldn't be of help to anyone who needed his assistance. But, just like on the day he was shot the desire to find and help the people calling for him won out over common sense. This time he had the assistance of his new-found parenting instincts. He ran to his daughter. He saw she was covered in magic writing but it wasn't the acid green writing found on the body nor was it the bloody red destroying what he assumed were protective spells here. These were orange designs that spoke of warmth, protection and home. They were the colour Mrs. Hudson favoured when knitting. There were also some icy blue ones like the ones he'd seen surrounding Mycroft. He couldn't be positive without a direct comparison but he thought they were the same ones.

John had to reach though some of the spells to pick his daughter up and he was concerned for a moment that they wouldn't let him though but they moved out of his way as if they knew it was him. His eyes became slightly misty when they looked at his offspring.

She was miserable.

He comforted her and was rocking her in his arms when a shadow fell over them. John shifted her so she was supported by a single arm and he reached for the weapon he traded for the infant.

"Relax." A voice told him in his other ear.

John spun that direction and his magpie dug their claws into his shoulder at the violent movement. There was no one there. With a curse John turned the other direction only to see one of the magpies sitting on the cot's railing.

His bird flapped their wings in agitation and John knew this other bird was someone's familiar.

"Do something, you're her father!" The new familiar demanded.

Their voice was similar to the voice John heard over his shoulder and he realized he was hearing the birds.

Deciding that it was only logical to speak to the magpies as they clearly understood English he said, "I've got her. Where are Mrs. Hudson and Greg?"

"You're breaking the rules!" The magpie on John's shoulder said.

"You broke them first and you're breaking them now!" The bird on the cot retorted childishly.

John could feel his magpie's indignation in the way their feathers puffed up.

Liea wailed again and John decided everything could wait until his daughter was calmed down.

It took what felt like an age but Liea had fallen into a fitful slumber. John was exhausted and heartbroken. He hated that his daughter was going through trauma. He was worried about Mrs. Hudson and Lestrade. He'd searched all of 221A while calming his daughter but was too nervous to search up and downstairs.

He'd mostly ignored the birds while focused on his daughter but now he had enough free brain space to really look at them. One was by the doors, seemingly guarding the entrances to the flat. John's familiar wasn't inclined to leave his shoulder and the third didn't want to leave Liea. John guessed the bird was hers and he wondered what type of powers she had. She wasn't a twin so did Mary come from a magical family? Was his daughter a- John's thought process stalled when he realized he didn't know what to call people who could use magic. He was so wrapped up in his personal problems that the fact that magic was real hadn't even had time to sink in. Even now John couldn't focus on that, he was far too worried about the people he cared about.

Maybe, John hoped, they'd find Greg and Mrs. Hudson with Molly. They'd all be safe and sound.

John's hand twitched around his Asp. Even though his daughter was heavy and the added weight of the weapon was hurting his arm and shoulder he couldn't put it down.

Suddenly it occurred to John that Mycroft hadn't sent anyone. Surely Mycroft was aware that Baker Street was compromised. Shouldn't there be someone here to check on them?

After putting his daughter back in the spelled cot John picked up his mobile. No missed calls, no messages. John dialled Mycroft and waited.

No answer.

John frowned, that wasn't right. Mycroft _always_ answered. If not the man himself one of his minions did.

With a sinking feeling John dialled again.

And again.

Not knowing what else to do John bit his lip and called out quietly so as not to wake his daughter, "Anthea?"

Nothing happened.

John didn't really know what he was expecting. Her to shimmer into existence in the flat because he said her name? Stupid.

"Well, guess I'm on my own." John said to himself.

He considered calling the police but he had no idea what to say. "My friends may have been captured by a powerful witch who is also my dead wife?" That'd get him locked away. Besides, he wasn't sure whoever was doing this was even Mary. "I think my friend and landlady have been kidnapped?" Sure, but the only signs of a struggle were the slashed spells.

John planted a kiss to his daughter's forehead and tightened his grip around his weapon. He decided he'd check upstairs first, if there was something tangible there he'd make a call. He didn't really want to get innocent people caught up in whatever game this mystery villain was playing anyway. John realized that everyone he had contact with would be at risk. He felt isolated. He didn't realize just how much he'd come to rely on Mrs. Hudson to make Baker Street a home. How much he relied on Greg to be a friend. How much he relied on Mycroft to be family.

 _Family._

An icicle pierced John's heart. Harry. He didn't know how but he knew she was in trouble. John fumbled when he pulled his phone out of his pocket and dropped the Asp to the floor. Ignoring the weapon as it rolled away John phoned his sister.

After too many rings it sent him to voicemail.

"Damnit Harry." John pushed the end call button and tried again.

And again. On the third try Harry finally answered, "What?!"

"Are you ok?"

"I 's till you woke me up." Harry slurred.

"Close all your blinds and lock the doors." John ordered. "I'm coming over. Don't answer for anyone but me."

"Whatever Johnny." It was clear from her tone she wasn't taking him seriously.

John did something he hadn't done for over twenty years, he pleaded with her. "Please, Harry. Can you do this for me? Please? It's really important."

"Alright, jeez, don't get your panties in a twist." She hung up without saying goodbye.

John looked at his phone and prayed his sister didn't just go back to sleep. He started to dial the number for a cab but realized he didn't want to take his daughter out of the safety of Baker Street. It felt horribly wrong to do so.

He looked up to ask for Mrs. Hudson and remembered she was missing. John cursed himself. He normally wasn't this easily distracted. He figured the stress was getting to him. Grabbing a baby monitor and clicking it on John located his weapon and headed upstairs.

221B was not undisturbed. There wasn't a sign of a struggle besides destroyed spells but these were taken out more sloppily than the ones below. It was clear whoever took out the spells in Baker Street entered through the window.

John felt terribly guilty. He'd left the window open when he fetched the magpies. It was his fault the flats were compromised. He hadn't realized someone could enter in broad daylight through the first story window without tripping some sort of alarm.

He really was an idiot.

John shook off the guilt and continued on his mission but there was no sign of either adult in the flat or the room upstairs.

Down in 221C John discovered the padlock on the door broken. It looked like it had been blasted off. There were sounds coming from the room behind the door and John readied himself for a fight.

With a deep breath John turned the knob, moving the door only enough that no one would notice unless they were looking at it. There was a pitiful cry and John knew someone was hurt and that someone was looking at the door. Everyone in the room would know he was there. There were no articulated calls for help or other sounds.

John knew there was a possibility this was a trap so he dialled for the police, reporting a break in and giving the address in a near whisper before kicking the door open.

John was sure he wasn't seeing clearly. It was impossible.

There was a high pitched keen coming from somewhere and John was sure the world wasn't supposed to be at an angle.

Was it?

When John's knees hit the floor he didn't even feel it.

* * *

End A/N: Ok, _serious_ question time: am I a bad writer? I feel I'm ok, always improving and it's hard without a beta... but I don't get many hits, comments, etc. It's rather disheartening. I try to self promote but, I don't know. Maybe it's just that the fandom died? Any ideas? Is anyone actually reading these? Is it just the change in writing style that people don't like?


	12. Three for a Girl: The Darkness

A/N: WARNING! This chapter contains scenes of animal cruelty and torture. I try not to be too graphic but some people might find them upsetting. Please skip to the end notes to read a chapter summary if you feel you might need to.

* * *

"Sh-Sher... Wha-?"

Sherlock tried to crawl on shaky limbs to John. He fell more than once but refused to give up. He couldn't balance properly, his muscles were atrophied and it looked like his leg was broken. He held it awkwardly. As he advanced he fell to his elbows and started dragging himself.

John's vision was clouded by tears. "God, what...?" What did they do to you? What are you doing here? John wasn't sure what he wanted to ask. Finally John's doctoring instincts kicked in. "Don't move."

Sherlock didn't listen. He was still trying to cross the small room; determined to get to John at any cost.

Swallowing back bile John tried to stand. He found his legs shaky and weak so he gave up and crawled too. He needed to go to Sherlock quickly so the man would stop moving. John knew he was in pain based on the suppressed grunts, groans and cries Sherlock made every time he moved.

Sherlock fell with a moan, his face touched John's hand.

John felt fur. Dear God, John thought, he's still a cat. John wasn't a vet. He didn't know what to do. Sure, he could clean and suture the cuts but he didn't know the first thing on how to properly splint Sherlock's leg or make a cast. He didn't even know how the bones were supposed to set. "C'mere, Sherl. I got you." John winced and blinked back wetness in his eyes as he picked the cat up.

Sherlock cried out and lost his human illusion.

John was left with a shivering ball of dirty, bloody, matted fur that didn't even have the energy to keep his eyes open. "I'm sorry, God, I'm so sorry. You're going to be ok. You'll be ok." John murmured mostly to himself as he took Sherlock upstairs.

After calling for a cab John carefully bundled Sherlock up and set him in a box. Then he prepared a diaper bag for his daughter and got her settled in the car seat. He told the magpies they had to stay and they protested with loud squawks but he wasn't moved.

The entire ride to the vet's office John was preoccupied by putting Liea's hat and socks back on. She was fond of wriggling so they fell off often. When he wasn't doing that he was petting Sherlock behind his ears, reassuring the cat through gentle touches that he was there. John's phone was set to vibrate and he didn't notice the two missed calls or either voicemail.

...-...

"Well, Mr. Watson, it looks like your cat is going to pull through. I have a couple of questions for you about how the injuries occurred though," the vet said.

John thanked God and wanted to hug the man but refrained. He thanked the vet profusely.

The man nodded, unimpressed by John's outburst. "Right, well. If you'll just follow me." He held a door open.

John hesitated; he had Liealia to look after. He didn't want to take his baby anywhere she could be exposed to germs. Well, he mused while taking a look around the reception area, any more germs.

"Relax, we're just going to my office. You can bring your child if you'd like."

John picked up the car seat and followed the man to the back.

"Well, Mr. Watson-" The vet started and John ignored the mistaken title. It wasn't important now. "-Your cat will live but he did have a lot of injuries. He was starved, severely dehydrated, there were several lacerations that required stitches, two broken ribs, of course his broken leg and some burns." The vet looked at his chart. "There were other more minor injuries too."

"Oh, God, poor Sherlock." John wondered how long he'd been tortured.

...-...

"So you're saying you found this cat?"

"Yes."

"And he was already in this shape."

" _Yes_ ," John growled. They'd been over this three times already. "His name is Sherlock, he's my cat, and he went missing. I found him, like that..." John had to take a deep breath there, just thinking of Sherlock so broken and hurt was killing him. "...so I bundled him up and brought him straight here."

"Did you file a report when your cat went missing?"

"Yes!" John was done with being not-so-subtly accused of animal abuse. "I filled it with Detective Inspector Greg Lestrade over at Scotland Yard." He could tell the vet wasn't buying it. "Here." John swiped a pen and paper from the vet's desk. "Here's his number. Now, I'd really like to see Sherlock. He needs to know I'm here. He's rather co-dependent and I've missed him terribly." John wasn't a good liar and for once the fact that he couldn't hide his emotions worked in his favour. The vet took the number and led John down a long hallway.

"Don't set your car seat down," the vet warned. "Your cat is just through here."

John was wishing he'd caught the other man's name so he could thank him properly and therefore wasn't paying proper attention when he walked through the door.

There was the sharp sting of a needle in John's bicep. The vet wasn't prepared for John to be used to random drugging and trained in combat. John managed to stop the other man from pushing down the plunger single handedly. John then turned the tables on the vet by ripping the needle out of his arm and stabbing him with it.

The vet went limp and fell to the floor.

John switched the carrier to his left hand for just a moment. It was heavy and unwieldy, his arm needed a rest. He surveyed the area while he was getting feeling back in his right fingers. There was a door to the back room here plus the door he entered though. John suspected everyone else cleared out and if he were to be caught it would be by backtracking. There was a chance there were co-conspirators in the back room but John guessed they would have come when they heard the body hit the floor.

Besides, there was no way in hell John was leaving without Sherlock.

...-...

Sherlock was bandaged from head to toe, knocked out and on fluids. With a wince John set his daughter's car seat down on the cleanest surface he could find and appropriated one of the cat carriers he saw. He gingerly moved his cat into the carrier and held the bags of fluids in his mouth so they'd stay elevated. Then he took the cat carrier in one hand, his daughter in the other and exited through a propped open emergency exit.

John would have been surprised at himself that he noticed cigarette butts as he left, explaining why the door wasn't alarmed, if he'd had attention to spare. There was a van with the office's logo on the side left running with the door open. John jumped inside, buckled his daughter in while cursing the lack of backseats and set Sherlock's carrier on the middle island drink holder. John hung the IV bags from a bar on his headrest and put the van in reverse. "Guess no one was helping him." John muttered, sure he would have been caught by an accomplice with how long it took him to escape.

...-...

John pulled the van into a car park and took out his mobile.

 **2 MISSED CALLS**

 **2 VOICEMAILS**

The screen announced.

John cursed and listened to the first:

 _"Hey, Johnny. Did what you said. Been sitting here, waiting for you. But guess what? You didn't show! You always do this! You always say something's really important then I'm forgotten about. It's been hours and I'm not... Hold on. Someone's at the door. This better be you, you- Hey! I'm not-! What are you-?" There was a clunk of a phone hitting the floor, glass shattering his sister screaming. There were shouts of other people before the crunching sounds of broken glass under boots and something heavy being dragged past the phone before the time ran out and the message ended._

John knew Harry had a mean right-hook and was proud she put up a fight. But he was mostly terrified.

The second voicemail played automatically while John was frozen by the first.

 _"John, you need to listen carefully. All my personnel have been compromised. Every electronic means of communication and surveillance have been as well. YOU CANNOT LEAVE BAKER STREET. Your sister is in danger so Anthea and myself are going there personally. Do not trust anyone but us. STAY AT BAKER STREET John. I cannot state- oh!" There was a shuffling sound before the call ended._

Not knowing what else to do John phoned Mycroft back. "Pick up, pick up, pick up!" No matter how much John implored the device to connect him to Mycroft it did nothing but ring out.

"URGH!" John shouted and punched the steering wheel.

The noise startled Liea and she started crying.

John picked her up and tried to comfort her as best he could without the diaper bag he left at the vet's office. "Sorry, I'm sorry." John blinked rapidly. "This is all my fault. But I'll protect you. I'll always protect you." John held his daughter against his chest so she was crying into the crook of his neck. "Shhh... Shh... It's ok. It'll be ok. I'll figure something out. Everything will be ok."

But Liea was either wet or hungry because she didn't stop wailing. John felt hopeless, alone and overwhelmed. He rocked his daughter and opened Sherlock's cage with the other. He wasn't quite sure where he could touch the cat where it wouldn't hurt and he didn't know how to take a cat's pulse but eventually he found a spot on Sherlock's left, less injured side, behind his front leg that had a strong beat.

Reassured that everyone with him was fine and resolved to keep them that way John managed to get his emotions back under control.

"First things first." John said to himself. The problem was that he didn't know what he needed to take care of first. Did he want to go to the Tesco for baby supplies? Go back to Baker Street and wait for backup? He needed to stop Liealia's crying, or did he? There wasn't much he could do to stop it now. John figured he could use the blanket lining the car seat as a diaper in a pinch but a quick check showed John she wasn't wet. There was no way to get her food without travelling and John was sure there was a way to track the van.

"So, we need a new ride." John muttered and looked around. There was an old pickup, probably from the early eighties a few spots down. John didn't want to take the risk of another vehicle without a back seat but all the other cars were newer and probably had chipped keys and alarms.

John knew how to steal cars from a rant that Sherlock went on after one of their cases. _"You see, with those old cars all you need to do is make sure the steering wheel isn't locked. If it isn't just take a screwdriver and a hammer..."_

John groaned at himself. He'd done much more illegal activities while partnered with Sherlock but he'd never knowingly committed car theft.

"Guess there's a first time for everything," John said flatly and tucked his daughter back in her car seat.

...-...

The hardest part about the whole thing was finding a hammer. John had ended up using a chunk of cement he found between two other cars. He hadn't found a screwdriver either but he hadn't looked as there was a nice pair of surgical scissors in the van John thought would work.

The truck had handles over both doors so John hung the IVs next to his head. He was terrified Liea would get tangled up in the tubes if he let them anywhere near her. Every time he turned they whacked him in the face. And he didn't realize how difficult it would be to drive a manual without power steering. John wasn't big on driving in the first place and he thought that he would be exceedingly happy to never touch a clutch in rush hour traffic again.

John dove across London to the area near where his sister lived and parked illegally on one of the side streets. He figured not having a ride would be better than being caught in a stolen car. Then he opened the door, intending to take the car seat into the store and begging to use a break room microwave to make some formula when he realized his problem.

"Fuck!" He swore and kicked a tire. He couldn't take Sherlock into a Tesco. They'd never allow it.

He needed someone to watch his cat. He needed someone to watch his daughter so he didn't have to take her on ridiculous, dangerous adventures. He needed Mrs. Hudson.

A black car pulled alongside his purloined truck and John jumped back, reaching his hand into his pocket. For once he had both hands free and was wound up enough he was looking forward to beating these bad guys into submission.

"Get in the car, John." Mycroft's voice sounded and the door swung open.

John nearly fell over. "Oh, thank Christ! Where have you been?!" He demanded as he opened the other door to the truck to get the car seat.

"Hurry, we don't have a lot of time."

"Yeah, yeah." John handed the car seat into the shadow of the black car, trusting Mycroft to get her settled. He turned back to the truck to fetch Sherlock. "Just let me-" John felt the stick of a needle for the second time that day and cursed every deity he knew as the drug took him under.

...-...

Pain.

John tried to open his eyes but couldn't. He tried to roll out his sore shoulders but couldn't move. There was a sharp sting on his jaw and his head snapped to the side into his arm with a punch. It made his head ring and he was even more disoriented than before.

"Wake up!" A voice demanded.

John tried, it was probably important to do what the voice wanted but he was so tired. Why was he so tired? Where was he? He felt dizzy, he was swaying... Smoke. It smelled like cigarette smoke. He'd smelled this before...

"AHHH!" He screamed when the tip of the cigarette came into contact with his neck.

"You awake yet?"

John convulsed. This pain brought clarity and John realized he was hanging by his wrists. His arms were numb; there was a blindfold on over his eyes but nothing covering his mouth. John noted that whoever was holding him didn't expect anyone to hear him and must want information. John tried to take inventory of the rest of his body but wasn't given the chance before something solid, a bat perhaps, whammed into his back. The perfect spot to cause pain but not to do any serious injury. His captor was experienced and either didn't want to hurt him or planned to drag this out.

"Joooohnn, time to waaake up!" The voice sang before John caught the whooshing sound of the bat before it hit his injured shoulder.

Deciding that talking would at least delay the next hit John said, "I'm awake." The words came out breathier and weaker than he'd liked.

There was the sound of metal hitting the floor, either an aluminium bat or a pipe then, John noted.

"Did you miss me?"

"Mary?" John didn't want to believe it. He'd held onto Mycroft's assertion that she was minor compared to the new threat and ran with it in his mind. The shooter couldn't be Mary because the shooter missed. The video was a hoax, Mary was dead.

"Well, did you?"

"Mary, you're alive?" John asked instead of answering the question.

"I think you were grieving for Sherlock, not me." She said, tilting her voice so she was mocking him.

John rubbed the side of his face against his numb arm. He couldn't- no, wouldn't -believe it until he saw it with his own eyes. But the blindfold didn't budge.

"And poor Molly. Did you all have a good laugh when she went missing? I know you didn't care."

"That's not true!" John retorted and got a kick for his trouble.

"You all laughed at her all the time. Teased her for loving Sherlock. Like you could have any room to talk. You've been jealous of anyone close to him."

Something wasn't adding up. There was something off about this. John didn't have a relationship whatsoever with Molly. Molly never seemed to like him and only responded to him when it was something about Sherlock.

Pain! She was cutting the bottoms of his feet.

"Don't get distracted, now."

John panted, pulling on his restraints. He refused to let the pain distract him. He was onto something, damnit! He knew he wasn't as smart as Sherlock but surely-

"AAAHHH!" John screamed again but this time because he was suddenly dropped on his injured feet.

"Can't have you passing out," Moriarty said. "Did you miss _ME_?"

"No." John answered as soon as he caught his breath.

"Was that because I killed your pretty little wife? I know you didn't really love her."

"Shut up!" John screeched as he tried to move his arms so the blood would flow back into them. "You don't know anything."

"Oooo, I hit a nerve. Did you like playing house in the suburbs?" Moriarty asked gleefully. "Never told your wife you were already married though, did you?"

"I wasn't!"

"I have paperwork that proves you're nothing but a liar, John Hamish Watson-Holmes." The voice wavered on the last name.

"Were you in love with him?" John asked. It was the first thing that popped into his head but he heard the other man stepping closer and he knew saying something would delay the pain he was about to receive.

"Were you?" Moriarty retorted.

John ground his teeth together and pressed his lips into a line. He was thankful his plan worked.

"Sherlock was in love with you, you know. He told me."

John reeled. "What?"

"Not in so many words, of course. But, he's loved you ever since that first night when you shot that cabbie for him. Poor thing didn't even realize it until it was too late and you were with Mary. But you made her fall in love with you too, didn't you?"

John screamed again as the bat hit his tingling shoulder. He slumped to the other side and curled up into a ball when he was kicked in the gut.

"You tore Sherlock's heart to shreds when you married Mary. You didn't deserve his love! All you did was hurt him!"

John wasn't sure if it was the bat or a shoe that hit his nose, only that it erupted in blood as it broke.

"Stop it! You'll kill him! You're a do-" Mrs. Hudson's voice was silenced.

"Oops," a high pitched voice giggled, "got a little carried away there."

John's blood ran cold. He knew that laugh. And if it wasn't another illusion he knew he was in deep shit.

* * *

End A/N: Did you figure it out yet?

SPECIAL THANK YOU to everyone who commented last chapter. I was really getting discouraged and was happy that some people are enjoying this. The next chapter is already written and will be up soon.

Summary: John finds cat Sherlock in 221C. He takes the animal to the vet, missing two calls. The vet patches cat-Sherlock up and pulls John into his office to talk about the animal's injuries and how they came to be. The vet tries to drug John but John knocks him out instead then takes the office's van. The first call was from his sister, wondering where he was and when he was going to show up. The voicemail she leaves ends in what sounds like a struggle. The second is from Mycroft telling John his sister is in danger, all of his agents and electronics have been compromised and to trust no one but himself and Anthea. And, whatever John does, he isn't to leave 221 for any reason. Since he's already left the flat John drives to a car park and steals a truck when he realizes he left his diaper bag behind and Liea's hungry. When he gets to the Tesco near his sister's house he realizes he can't leave Sherlock alone in the car. He curses until a black car shows up and Mycroft's voice tells him to get in. John hands over his daughter and is drugged. John wakes up blindfolded while Mary and Moriarty question him about his relationship with Sherlock. They do so painfully. There's a third high pitched voice John thinks he recognizes after Mrs. Hudson tells them to stop hurting John but John's not sure it's not just another illusion.

Teaser playlist for chapter 6: _( YouTube ) link can be found on my tumblr TheArtOne_


	13. Three for a Girl: The Girl

A/N: The torture continues in the first part of this chapter but I try to keep it mild. It's not really something that can be summarized effectively but if you can't take the risk I did my best in the end notes; just skip the *'ed parts.

* * *

...*...

"Molly?" John asked, recognizing the voice but unbelieving she could be capable of any of this.

"Finally figured it out, did you? I suppose it doesn't matter, you won't be leaving here alive. You don't deserve to live. You took everyone I've ever loved and then you hurt them. You're horrible John. You're despicable. You marry Sherlock and turn around and marry Mary as if he didn't matter. Then you decide you don't want the woman you made fall in love with you and go back to Sherlock. What is wrong with you?!"

"I was never married to Sherl-AHHH!" John couldn't help the scream. She'd hit him with a cattle prod.

"Don't you FUCKING LIE TO ME!" She screeched.

John heard something clatter into the corner of the room and his blindfold was ripped off. The light hurt but John was glad he could see. As he blinked he could see Molly, her hair was falling out of her pony tail, her eyes were bloodshot and she looked deranged.

"You took everyone I loved and tossed them aside."

Not knowing what to say to that John kept his mouth shut. He was confused though, he knew she liked Sherlock but she didn't even know Mary, did she? Was there someone else?

"I gave Mary her child back. You'll never see her again."

John struggled against his bonds. "You have no right to do that!"

"I have every right! You're an unfit parent."

"Mary's dead!"

Molly blinked in surprise. "You still haven't figured it out, have you?" She started laughing. It wasn't her normal nervous giggle; this was darker, twisted- terrifying.

It sent a chill down John's spine.

"Mary wasn't the only one working for Moriarty. Who do you think got rid of the man in IT in the first place? Who do you think recommended Jim for the job?"

John froze, he thought about all the cases Molly helped them on. All the information she had. She'd helped Sherlock fake his death!

"Sherlock was so vapid. He was so self absorbed he couldn't see past my little star-stuck act."

John growled at her. How dare she say such things about Sherlock! He considered her a friend! He didn't trust easy and she took advantage of him! "We both know it wasn't an act." This earned him a kick to the face and he grunted.

"Yes, well. Jim went insane trying to play his games on Sherlock. I was pleased you were able to get rid of him. Now I'm the head of the organization."

So she wasn't in love with Moriarty then.

Molly lit another cigarette. "I would have let my lover do this bit, she's much better at it, but I don't want her getting close to you again. I can't trust her around you." Molly took out a scalpel and flashed it in the dim lights. "You were just supposed to be a job. She was supposed to get close to you so she could watch for signs of Sherlock's return. But Mary fell in love with you. She couldn't help herself apparently. Personally I don't see it." Molly put her cigarette out on John's bleeding foot.

John ground his teeth to prevent himself from screaming. He refused to give her the satisfaction.

"Can't let yourself be vulnerable for me, huh? Well," all off a sudden Molly's appearance changed. She looked like Mary. "How about me?" She even sounded like Mary.

"What? How?"

Molly-Mary used the scalpel to cut up John's denims, uncaring that she was catching skin with cloth. "I know you're new to this world but I didn't think you were this slow. How anyone can stand to talk to you is beyond me." She removed his pants next; every time John tried to shuffle away she stabbed his thigh. Once they were cast aside she said, "Well, I guess they didn't keep you around for conversation. It makes a little more sense now."

John used her moment of distraction to kick the scalpel from her hand. John then used the fact that she'd tied his hands in front of his body to his advantage and tackled her. He sat atop her chest and started strangling her.

Molly put up a good fight, she had the fact that she was deranged on her side but she couldn't over power John despite his binds and injuries. She scratched at his wrists and clawed at his hands to no avail. Then her appearance shimmered and she looked like Sherlock.

"John!" Molly-Sherlock gasped with the last of their air. They looked into John's eyes.

John wasn't moved. He knew what was going on now. The book explained it; Molly was an illusionist.

As soon as she passed out the illusion was dropped.

John dropped his hands and rocked back onto his heels, keeping weight on her body. He swallowed thickly knowing she could just be playing a trick on him. Molly was crafty and dangerous. He couldn't have her waking up. John picked the scalpel up from its resting place a few feet from his leg. It felt wrong, horrible, but John couldn't risk it. He couldn't have her loose. Molly was the one who shot Mrs. Hudson, she probably shot Sherlock too. Probably. Maybe. He couldn't risk it. He had to protect his loved ones. She couldn't go to a normal jail, Mycroft was compromised...

With a heavy feeling in his chest John dragged the scalpel across her throat.

John knew she was dead when he could hear traffic. Apparently she had put some sort of noise dampening spells over the building they were in.

Wanting a weapon and unwilling to touch the scalpel again John looked at the trays. There were all sorts of implements of torture there. John felt his stomach churn at what Molly had in mind for him. He picked up the gun and checked it, a nine millimetre Glock fully loaded. John took the cattle prod too and left his cell without looking back.

...*...

Mrs. Hudson was in the cell across and she cried when she saw him. He comforted her as best he could and made sure to check her for injuries before he allowed her to move. Her gunshot wound was healed and it made John shake his head. Why, if so many people had magic, couldn't it be used on a regular basis? John's mind boggled at the good it could do in a hospital alone.

Greg was in a cell next to Mrs. Hudson and had a broken arm. John blushed when the other man told him to cover up and offered him his trousers. John took them and wanted to die when Mrs. Hudson said she didn't mind. He'd forgotten about trivial things like clothing with the other things on his mind. John patched Greg up as best he could with no supplies. He didn't want to go back into his cell so he used the cattle prod to help splint Greg's arm and used his jacket as a sling. It'd do until they could get out of here.

After that an argument ensued. Greg wanted to get out and call for backup but John wanted to help the others. Mrs. Hudson told John there was no one else there but John wanted to make sure. Greg put his foot down after that and John agreed with the DI just to get him to shut up.

John got both of them safely outside and when Greg was calling for help he snuck back in. But he shouldn't have bothered. Just as Mrs. Hudson said there was no one else in the building.

Bright flashing lights were shining around the corner and John hid out of the way until he was sure Greg and Mrs. Hudson were getting help. Then he looked around, he wasn't too far from where he abandoned the truck. Luckily Sherlock had made John memorize London. John knew he needed medical attention but he also knew his injuries weren't dire. He shuffled off down the street, ignoring the pain in his legs and feet, praying the truck was still there and he'd find Sherlock safe inside.

...-...

For once in John's life things went his way. Sherlock was dehydrated but fine and very upset about being left in a cage. He wasn't in his human form but John knew he'd get an earful once he was. John got him calmed down and marched into the Tesco, uncaring about the looks he got as he bought Pedialyte for the cat in his arms.

Finally John made it back to Baker Street. One of the magpies was missing and the other two were waiting at the door. It was clear one was agitated he'd returned without Liealia even though it refused to speak. John's familiar flew to his shoulder and greeted him gently. John put Sherlock on the bed to rest. Then John went to the loo to shower and clean his wounds. The magpie helped John with the injuries to his back and to the bottoms of his feet. Thos injuries were better than John originally thought, they only needed plasters. They'd remained mostly clean too because Greg's trousers were so long he'd tread on them instead of the streets.

After that John crashed. He fell into a deep slumber that was plagued with nightmares about his missing sister and brother-in-law until cat-Sherlock curled up in between John's shoulder blades and started purring.

...-...

"John Hamish Watson how dare you leave us like that! Do you have any idea how worried we were?!"

It wasn't a pleasant way to be woken up but John was happy Mrs. Hudson made it back safely. "I had to get Sherlock." He explained. "Is Greg ok?" He was feeling guilty for falling asleep instead of taking care of them.

"Yes." Apparently his excuse was good enough for his landlady. She petted the cat fondly before declaring she was going to make breakfast and John had better be down soon.

John had to help Sherlock use the loo with his broken leg and both of them were very awkward about it even though Sherlock was a cat at the time. John wasn't sure if it'd be better to buy a litter box or if that would just make things worse.

...-...

"So, I guess Mary really is alive. Molly must have put illusions on her to make her look dead." John said to Mrs. Hudson while he ate an egg. "We have to find her so we can get Liea back. She probably knows where Mycroft and Anthea are too. And my sister." John didn't mean to add Harry on as an afterthought but he really wasn't used to worrying about her.

"Well, I'm glad no one hurt Sherlock too badly. Do you know how he ended up downstairs?" Mrs. Hudson was busy hand feeding ham to the spoiled cat.

"No."

Sherlock had manipulated Mrs. Hudson into putting him a seat on a chair and acted like he belonged there. When Mrs. Hudson left to get more tea John snapped at him to act more like a cat which earned him a hiss in return.

They discussed trying to find Mycroft but agreed there wasn't much they could do. Mrs. Hudson said Anthea could teleport without permission if need be so if Mycroft was in too much trouble she'd be able to get help.

After a quick search on his phone John found his magpie was a Eurasian Magpie and it was next to impossible to sex them unless they were mating. The males were typically bigger but the range difference in the plumage was so small it wasn't a reliable test.

The magpie watched John do this and laughed at him.

John didn't feel too bad when Sherlock decided to chase the bird across the flat and only scolded at the cat because he was worried he'd aggravate his injuries. Sherlock could move impressively well on three legs. John worried cat Sherlock was in pain but if he was there were no signs John could see. The cat's leg was bound up so he wo0uldn't put weight on it and he had trouble jumping which kept him off the furniture. John was both thankful and hateful of this because Sherlock wouldn't hurt himself jumping off things but he also demanded up and John had to move him everywhere.

After lunch John went to the pet store for a litter box. As humiliating as it would be for Sherlock to use neither of them would survive their current arrangement. John also bought some squirrel feed for the magpies but drew the line at buying crickets for them despite the sales boy's recommendation. John figured the omnivorous birds could just have a boiled egg for breakfast as that part of their diet.

...-...

Mrs. Hudson had spent all afternoon putting the ward spells back up. She wasn't mad at John for leaving the window open and even taught him how to do them as she drew them in the air channelling her magic through a pencil.

John's mind boggled at how much he needed to learn. There was a runic alphabet on top of sigils. There was also a verbal and somatic component for each spell. John tried to replicate one of Mrs. Hudson's wards but only managed to singe the doorway. Mrs. Hudson was delighted and said it was a very good first try.

After dinner there was a knock on the door. John clicked the safety off his gun and went to see who was there. It had to be someone powerful to even make it up the steps to the front door.

It was Mr. and Mrs. Holmes. John opened the door for them and welcomed them inside.

"There you are Sherlock. Your brother is missing. Time to stop playing around." Mummy Holmes said as soon as she saw the cat.

Sherlock spun around and ran off down the hall, his limp and cast barely slowing him down.

"Honestly!" She said with a shake of her head. "And you. We're going to have a talk about your wedding. Why didn't we get an invitation?"

John stammered, "W-what wedding? We never had a wedding!"

"You eloped with my son? You had a wedding with that woman!"

"Sherlock and I were never married! Mycroft signed my name to that document without my knowledge." John wasn't positive about this. It was possible John signed the document but he didn't know what it was if he did.

Mummy found this answer believable and acceptable which really said something. "Well, you'll be having a real wedding as soon as we find Mykie and that's final."

John really didn't have a response to that. He doubted she'd believe that his relationship with Sherlock wasn't like that, Lord knows Mrs. Hudson didn't. Plus, he did want his relationship with Sherlock to be more than friendship. He was pretty sure it always was even though he didn't realize it at the time.

"Good. That's settled. Well, let's get you in the family now so you can talk to your familiar and get your training started. Why Mykie didn't do this sooner I'll never know. That boy..." She grumbled as she took various items out of her purse and set them on the table.

Mr. Holmes came up next to John and clapped him on the shoulder that didn't have a magpie on it. "You ready, son?"

John wasn't sure what was about to happen and he could say with some certainty that he wasn't. But he wasn't a chicken and he really wanted to know more about magic. He was sure it was the key to finding his family. "As I'll ever be."

* * *

End A/N: That's the end of part 3 (4 if you count the cover)! I had wanted to put a lot of the magic stuff in part two and leave part three to just be the case but I think doing it this way was better even if part 2 was short. Part 5 will be called Four for a Boy and I'll start it soon. We'll finally move from pre-slash onto actual slash. Subscribe to get email notifs.

 **Summary:** It was Molly's voice John heard. John confirms this visually after she removes his blindfold. She tells John she gave Mary Liea and he'll never see them again. Then she villain monologues about how she set Moriarty up as Jim from IT and that she was just playing love sick. John calls her on it. She then thanks John for getting rid of Moriarty and informs him she's the new leader of the organization. Molly informs John she put Mary in his path so she could watch for Sherlock's return but Mary fell in love with him. Molly implies she had a relationship with Mary and that she didn't want Mary near him even though she'd be better at torturing. Molly transforms her appearance and voice into Mary's and becomes distracted. John uses the fact that she tied his hands in front of his body to his advantage and tackles her. John figures out she's an illusionist. She tries to gain the upper hand by transforming into Sherlock but it doesn't work. He then knocks her out but decides she's too dangerous to let live. A normal prison can't hold her with her powers and with Mycroft compromised John decides the safest choice for the safety of his friends and family is to kill her. He takes no joy in doing so and doesn't drag it out.


	14. Four for a Boy: The Ritual

A/N: I'm back to working on this story. If you see anywhere that I completely messed up let me know.

* * *

The ceremony was... interesting. Mrs. Hudson preformed all the magic since Mr. and Mrs. Holmes's generation was skipped. John was forbidden to speak of it which didn't matter much to him; after all, who would he tell?

John learned that Mrs. Hudson was just using the ward she had John try was just a test. He left Mrs. Hudson's flat and loitered in the foyer. He didn't want to go upstairs quite yet. John's familiar, the magpie Tenebris, flew to his shoulder and John gave him an affectionate pet. "There are police at the door, they can't make it past the spells to knock but they'll be able to soon."

"Why are they here?" John asked. He felt stupid immediately afterwards because how would the bird know?

Tenebris rolled his eyes. "I can find out, if you'd like."

John brushed his finger along one of Tenebris's long wing feathers. He was torn, he didn't want Tenebris away from him where he could be injured but at the same time the bird would make an excellent spy.

Before John could make a decision his mobile rang. The caller ID read Greg so John answered. "Hello?"

"John! Listen, they're charging you with Molly's murder. I shouldn't be warning you but I thought you should know. Get yourself some representation. I'm working on my end, but they still have to bring you in."

"Thanks Greg." John managed before the other man had to ring off. Greg couldn't get caught warning a suspect. John hung his head; he'd left the murder weapon there with his fingerprints. His blood was everywhere. Sure, it was self-defence but John was pretty sure his scalpel work didn't qualify. And he had fled the scene and hadn't gone to the hospital. He scrolled though his phone, Mycroft would be able to tell him what to do.

Then it hit him: Mycroft was missing. "Fuck."

"Language." Mrs. Hudson warned from her doorway.

"Sorry." John sighed. "I've got a problem. Are Mr. and Mrs. Holmes still here?"

"Call me Mummy, dear." Mrs. Holmes said as she exited Mrs. Hudson's flat. It was clear she was just on the other side listening to everything.

They all went back into 221A to chat.

John explained his problem to them while pacing. He didn't know if there was some council that dealt with this magic business that he could appeal to.

There was, but the council consisted solely of Mycroft and Anthea. John also learned that there wasn't some super wizard prison either; they just took away magic user's (each group had their own preferred term) bonded item. Familiars were trickier but they had a process to keep them separated as well. Some magic could be cast without help but nothing serious enough to do any harm. Mostly it was self-defence spells.

John felt deeply guilty; he hadn't needed to kill Molly.

Mrs. Hudson brought him some tea and biscuits when he slid dejectedly into a chair. "Don't feel bad. There was no way for you to know," she said kindly.

That wasn't true. John knew about bonded items and familiars before. He just didn't apply the knowledge.

Tenebris nuzzled him but didn't say anything. The other magpie came and landed on John's unoccupied shoulder. John gave that one a pat too. The bird was Sherlock's familiar but the cat had run off when they performed the ceremony.

"I'll go find Sherlock, it's his turn now." Mr. Holmes said, possibly only to give John some space. John noticed that Mrs. Hudson and Mummy had wandered off.

"What's your name then?" John asked the other magpie.

The magpie shot him a dirty look and Tenebris cackled. "He can't say, he can only give his true name to his bonded."

"Oh," John said. Well, at least he knew the other magpie was a male too. "Is it some sort of secret?"

Tenebris tilted his head, "Sort of, a witch with malicious intent can use it to cause harm."

John frowned. He wasn't aware of that. He'd always felt weird sharing his middle name, and not just because it was horrible, so maybe it was some sort of subconscious defence mechanism. Deciding that made sense John decided to ask Tenebris something that had been bothering him, "How do you know so much anyway?"

Tenebris answered after a moment, "Because I was a magic user in a past life." He said this softly and it was clear to John there was a painful story there.

John wasn't going to pry if it wasn't welcome. He decided to ask another question, "Why is having a familiar such a big deal anyway? It has to happen fairly often."

The other magpie made a disgruntled sound and Tenebris avoided the question, "I'll explain when you're ready."

Just then Mr. Holmes came down with a sulking cat in his arms. "John?" He asked.

"Yeah?" John stood carefully to not upset the birds' balance. John wasn't a fan of their talons but he wasn't about to try to file them either.

"Can you get him to change into a human for the ceremony?"

It had occurred to John that Sherlock couldn't change at will and that was the reason he hadn't changed even though he knew John was in trouble. Sherlock hissed and John winced as he said, "He can't." Now that John was thinking about it Sherlock never changed. He was always a cat and it was only John who saw him as a human.

"Poppycock." Mummy came over to her feline son and put him on the table. "Now, Sherlock, stop being unreasonable. Change back this instant."

"Jawn!" Cat Sherlock pleaded.

The plea cinched it. Sherlock didn't beg. "I'm serious," John said. "He can't! Even if he could I wouldn't recommend it with his leg."

Sherlock managed the smuggest look John had ever seen and John wondered if being a cat made it easier.

Mummy gave a very put upon sigh.

Before an argument could break out Mrs. Hudson intervened. "John's right, dear. Sherlock hasn't bonded with his familiar so he probably can't do the spell to change himself back."

Tenebris tightened his grip on John's shoulder and John looked over. Was it his imagination or did Tenebris look sad?

"I think I can manage the ritual with John's help." Mrs. Hudson said.

"Me?" John squeaked, thoroughly distracted. "The last time I tried to do magic I burnt the door!" Even though he was bonded now he wasn't going to risk Sherlock's safety.

"Don't worry, dear. I'll take care of most everything. I just need you to hold a picture of Sherlock in your mind."

John nodded, he could do that.

Mrs. Hudson took out some chalk and removed the rug in the entry. She started drawing a circle and symbols often referencing a large tome. While she was getting candles John asked Mummy what he was supposed to do about the police.

"Sherlock probably has some ideas. And Mycroft will take care of everything once he's back." She was dismissive and John held hope that he wouldn't be locked away for the rest of his life. She then explained how John should picture Sherlock so as not to ruin his leg. "You're a doctor so instead of just picturing the cast just imagine him human then picture it healing itself. It'll be a cinch."

John was glad she had confidence in him but was still worried. It wasn't just Sherlock's leg; he had broken ribs, stitched up lacerations, burns and other injuries too.

Mrs. Hudson came back with candles, incense and what looked like a lock of Sherlock's hair. Before he could ask Mrs. Hudson said, "Sherlock's hair will help a bit."

John wondered how she got that hair and what she had of John's. After a moment he decided not to ask; he really didn't want to know. John busied himself cutting off Sherlock's cast and removing stitches.

Sherlock was carefully placed in the circle and he arranged his paws and tail so he wasn't touching any of the symbols. He flicked one of his ears in irritation when Mrs. Hudson lit the incense but didn't sneeze which is more than John managed.

"Ok, John. You ready?"

John grunted his assent. He could feel the magic before he could see it. Tenebris kept contact with John's neck so John could focus on picturing Sherlock. The other magpie settled himself on the banister and settled in for the show.

Mrs. Hudson began speaking a strange mix of English and languages John didn't know or understand.

The circle glowed and John cursed as he hurriedly focused on what Sherlock looked like. Curly hair that looked black in shadows but was actually a dark brown. It had a bit of red in it in the sun. Pale skin that showed how little time Sherlock spent in the sun. The almond eyes framed with dark lashes. Sherlock's thick slightly uneven eyebrows. Those cheekbones that took a slight rosy hue when he was embarrassed (which wasn't often). The cupid's bow lips that were almost never chapped and were usually a delicious shade of pink. The lower a little out of balance with the top. Sherlock's perfect nose and brow.

John moved down to Sherlock's long neck. His Adam's apple that helped produce the deep rumble that never failed to go do John's cock. The tendons, the muscles, the almost translucent skin, the freckles. John next pictured Sherlock's shoulders, narrow when they met but always had well defined trapezius muscles. Those muscles continued down his back. A narrow waist that John thought Sherlock could encircle with his hands when they first met but when John was taking care of Mary's wound he noticed it had filled out with defined muscles despite Sherlock's attempts to hide. There was the small smattering of hair on Sherlock's chest. Sherlock's pectorals, his nipples…

Tenebris nipped John's ear gently and John moved on to Sherlock's ribs, picturing them healed because he didn't know which were injured before moving onto Sherlock's arms, getting distracted again when he got down to large hands with long fingers. Violinist's fingers, able to do the most delicate procedures, strong enough to- Another nip by John's familiar and John moved on to Sherlock's hips. John received one last nip when he was distracted by Sherlock's plush arse.

John realized then that he had a gap in his knowledge. Even though Sherlock often wandered about the flat in naught but a sheet and they shared a shower John had never seen Sherlock's… equipment. He knew the approximate size of Sherlock's erection, his pajama pants left little to the imagination, but John hadn't ever been intimately acquainted.

John decided not to picture anything and hope that the spell would still work; and Sherlock wouldn't end up looking like a Ken doll. John moved down to Sherlock's long legs. Here he focused on fixing the break, picturing nerves, ligaments, muscles and bone knitting together in proper working order. John finally ended with Sherlock's large elegant feet.

John opened his eyes and saw cat-Sherlock take on a subtle glow. Sherlock's tail flicked and his ears twitched and John watched, entranced, before the light became too much and he had to look away.

Mrs. Hudson pointed her teapot with a flourish and a naked Sherlock stumbled out of the circle.

Well, John thought as he blushed and quickly looked away, looked like the spell worked despite the gaps in my knowledge.

"What the… JOHN!"

John looked up at Sherlock's exasperated cry and saw the problem.

Sherlock was giving John a death glare while two furry triangles covered in curly fur with shell pink insides twitched on his head.

But it wasn't until John looked down and saw the dark fluffy tail that he broke into giggles. Tenebris fled John's shaking shoulder with a squawk.

"It's not funny!" Sherlock shouted. "Mrs. Hudson, do something." The demand came out as more of a plea.

Mrs. Hudson was having trouble keeping a straight face and she had her mouth covered to hide her smile while she said, "I'm sorry dear, the spell is over. You've left the circle."

"Then do it again!"

"Sherlock, stop being difficult and go put some clothes on." Mummy interjected.

"Not until this-" Sherlock pointed to his tail "-and these-" he pointed to his head "-are gone!"

John understood why Sherlock was so upset but the situation was so ludicrous he couldn't stop laughing. He fell against the wall when it felt like his ribs were going to break. Tears streamed down his cheeks as he apologized between giggles, "S-sorry."

Sherlock's ears disappeared in his hair and he hissed.

John noticed that Sherlock's teeth were back to normal and for that he was grateful. Sherlock blinked and he looked like he was nearly crying. John sobered. "I'm sorry, Sherlock. I don't know what happened. I didn't mean to." He said this to the ceiling because he was having trouble not staring at the vision before him. The bullet hole Mary had placed in him was gone. He looked younger too, like a mix of the best features from when they first met and when Sherlock fell the second time.

"Clothing, Sherlock." Mummy ordered and John moved without looking so Sherlock could climb the stairs.

He couldn't help but notice Sherlock's tail brushed John's chest as Sherlock passed. John resisted the urge to reach out and touch it.

...-...

Mrs. Hudson busied herself blowing out candles and cleaning up the circle John wallowed in guilt.

John decided he needed to apologize to Mummy too. He'd managed to mess up the ritual and Sherlock was upset. "I'm so sorry-"

"Don't worry," Mummy interrupted him and waved her hand dismissively, "Sherlock's always been easily disconcerted. He should just be happy that he's human again. Well, mostly. He was always a little catty." She seemed pleased with her joke.

John didn't laugh. He now realized what a big problem he'd created. Without surgery Sherlock would be teased mercilessly. John couldn't say that Sherlock was disfigured, John thought Sherlock was perfect. It wouldn't matter to John if Sherlock was stuck in his cat form forever. Although John was very glad he wasn't for… reasons. And he was having a very hard time not thinking about those reasons now that he'd started.

There was a loud thud over their heads. Mummy and Mrs. Hudson gave John a pointed look so he climbed the stairs.

He knocked on Sherlock's door and when there wasn't any response he entered. He was terrified that Sherlock had done something stupid like using or trying to cut the offending appendages off and the thud was him hitting the floor as he passed out.

John wasn't expecting to see Sherlock huddled in a ball on the bed naked except for his favorite socks. His face was buried under his arms and his tail was wrapped tightly around his middle. "Sherlock?" John asked.

Sherlock's right ear flicked but otherwise the man gave no indication he heard John.

"Sherlock?" John tried again. He knew how much Sherlock hated repetition and if he didn't say anything else Sherlock would eventually snap and tell John what was wrong.

"I don't hate repetition." Sherlock said without looking up.

"What?" John was fairly certain he hadn't said his thought out loud and Sherlock wasn't even looking at him.

"You think that if you just repeat my name I'll respond with what's bothering me. It won't work."

"Ok." John said, thoroughly confused. It had always worked in the past.

Sherlock didn't elaborate though and silence stretched between them.

John could out strubbron Sherlock on a good day but he felt words were needed here. "I am sorry. I think it happened when I opened my eyes. I hadn't pictured your ears, or a tail, obviously, and I saw them before the spell finished."

Sherlock didn't say anything.

So John continued, "I really didn't mean to. I'm sorry. Maybe we can find you an illusionist to fix them?" John knew that any magic user could theoretically use any spell but some were easier than others.

"Can't you just cut them off?"

John could, theoretically. But he thought in practice if he saw Sherlock bleeding under his knife he'd vomit.

Since John didn't answer Sherlock said, "Never mind," wrapped his arms tighter around his knees and lowered his ears into his hair.

This was the point that John would normally move their conversation into something safer, like what the problem was. John suspected the tail made it difficult for anything to fit and Sherlock was having trouble getting dressed. John knew what he'd be expected to do if Sherlock were one of his ex-girlfriends. He'd have to comfort her about her appearance because she'd be insecure.

Sherlock was no girl and John was extremely hesitant treating him like one of his girlfriends. After all, all of them except Mary had left. Well, John mused, technically Mary left too. John hadn't had any boyfriends and didn't have any experiences there to draw from. He knew how conscious James was about his scars though. John had never managed to tell him he didn't mind the marks. He didn't care about scars. He liked James for who he was not what he looked like.

James wouldn't listen if John had tried though. James always kept John at a distance.

And John always kept Sherlock at arm's length after Angelo's.

"I am sorry I messed up the spell but I don't mind the results." John said after swallowing heavily.

Sherlock lifted his head just enough for a silvery eye to inspect John. "Really?" One of Sherlock's ears poked halfway out of his hair.

"Yes. I think the ears are cute. Maybe now I'll have some clue as to what is going on in that head of yours."

Sherlock snorted but his posture relaxed.

"Did you look at yourself in a mirror?"

"No."

John walked over to Sherlock's dresser and tossed a pair of pants at his friend. "Put those on and come see." Without waiting to see if Sherlock would follow his instructions John moved to stand in front of the full-length mirror. He placed himself so that his back was to his lanky friend and he couldn't see Sherlock in the reflection.

Sherlock soon joined him, the waistband of his pants were rolled down several times to accommodate his tail.

"Oh." Sherlock gasped softly.

John worried that he'd failed, that Sherlock didn't like what he saw. He looked into Sherlock's eyes in the mirror in alarm.

Sherlock was busy running his hands over his body and didn't notice. "This is how you see me?" Sherlock asked quietly.

John looked over Sherlock critically. "Well, you came out a bit young but then again you are a bit young."

Sherlock chuckled and wrapped his arm around John's shoulders before moving back to his closet to pick out a shirt.

John watched his reflection blush and bush his hand over where Sherlock's hand had rested.

Oh.

* * *

End A/N: Tenebris means dark in Latin.


End file.
